What Any of it is Worth
by Queen
Summary: Ahsoka. Rex. Echo. Fives. Cody. Ventress. Each of them must find their way after the fall of the Republic, and decide for themselves what is truly worth saving. Can there be any light during the Dark Times?
1. The Form of Perseverance

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Before we get started, I wanted to comment that _**this is a sequel**_. It follows another fic called _**Said the Joker to the Thief**_. This fic will probably not make much sense without having read that. It takes place post _Revenge of the Sith_, and focuses on some of the supporting cast of _The Clone Wars_ series. _What Any of it is Worth _expands on the events of _Said the Joker_, and picks up immediately where _Said the Joker_ left off (not including its epilogue). Otherwise, enjoy!

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_What Any of it is Worth_

"_There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief  
"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief  
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth  
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth."_

'_All Along the Watchtower'- Bob Dylan_

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Chapter 1. The Form of Perseverance

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She _danced_.

Around her, jade colored brightness flew, in arcs and twists, the blade humming the familiar tune to which she moved. Eyes closed, energy whirling around her, but also through her, binding, the separation between herself and the rest of the galaxy diminished, her self submerged into the pattern of the dance and into the Force that bound her to all other things.

A foot moved _here_. A hand moved _there_. Perfect, practiced steps from countless repetitions. The blade moved forward, a stab. It swept upward, a slash. The light from its arc reflected against her face and lit the grass underfoot, eerie, cool, flickering. She moved low, the tips of the vegetation seared from the passing of the blade. She pivoted, balanced delicately for a moment on one foot, then lowered the other for a more solid stance. The ground was still somewhat soft from an earlier drizzle. Damp earth moved around bare toes as she positioned herself.

A final motion. A long thrust forward, legs bent, head low, chin down, invisible enemy stabbed through the heart.

She opened sky blue eyes, and found she had an audience.

* * *

Ilum did not exist.

It was not unlike Kamino in that sense. No starchart marked it. Few had ever heard of it, its existence kept secret from all but a special few. Reaching the planet was not easy. Travel on the surface of the world was cold and treacherous. The oceans were only floes of ice, the land covered in glaciers of blue and white, sparkling enough in the sunlight to blind any person who dared to look upon them directly.

Ahsoka squinted across the cliff, to see only a sea of white-blue behind her. Beneath heavy layers of snowsuit and parka, she was sweating with the effort of scaling the slopes to reach this vantage point. Bitter wind blew down from the higher mountains, sending flakes of snow swirling lazily around her. Her cheeks were turning dark brown with cold, her white markings revealing a shade almost matching the glaciers where they were uncovered by thermal fabric and insulating faux furs.

She lifted her hands, placed them on either side of the goggles over her eyes, and lifted them, setting the visor onto her forehead. The brightness increased, the sharpness of the light and refracting snow growing sharper. Her squint sharpened. But she wanted to see this with her own eyes, with nothing in the way. She looked up the cliff face before her, the pale wall of it rising until it seemed to cut the sky with a spiky edge.

Nestled between two sloping cliffs lay the ruin. Once, she knew, it had been beautiful. Ice spires that would have shone silver and blue amid the frost, crystalline colors, representative of the precious crystals that lay within. The structure that led into the Crystal Cave of Ilum served as a waystation and welcome place for Jedi seeking hearts for their lightsabers. Now it was toppled, the spires broken, the windows shattered or slumped. Archways were collapsed on themselves. The front gate was crushed close. All was scattered with snow.

Crunching footsteps. Rex approached, holding a scanner, his head bent intently, "I'm picking up some lifesigns in the area."

"Nearby?"

A pause, and she there was a frown visible on his face amid his own cold weather wrappings and goggles. His lips were tinged with blue. He brushed fine ice crystals off the surface of the scanner's monitor with a thickly gloved hand. "Not too close. We should be careful though. Whatever they are, they're big."

She peered around his arm to look at the readings. "Probably gorgodons. I'd rather not have to fight big hungry monsters on our way back to the ship, if we can avoid it."

Rex made a disgusted sound, then looked up from the scanner, taking in the sight of the ruined temple before them. "Better gorgodons than Imperials. Looks like the entrance is pretty well blocked off."

"You think it was done from orbit?" Ahsoka moved her goggles back over her face, blinking hard at the dryness. Her eyes stung for a moment, then watered. She tilted her head back to look at the cloudless blue sky, then pulled her hood closer around her face, the fur rippling around it in the wind.

Rex looked around, then shook his head. "More likely natural. No blast patterns on anything nearby." He raised a hand, pointed at the cliffs surrounding their position. "Nothing blown off or scorched. At least not anything visible. If this was Imperial work, it was long enough back for the snow to take it all over. I'd say incomplete reconstruction, then a bad storm. Look how it's fallen in on itself. Did the Imperials' work for them though. That's no way in. Not anymore."

Ahsoka traced the ruin with her eyes, then closed them, trying not to feel defeated. Even if Ilum was Imperial free, the main source of crystals she knew of was damaged beyond accessibility. At least the front entrance was. They would have to spend more time on Ilum than she liked. It was necessary. "We'll need to do some surveying. Do some deep scans from the _Drake_. Ilum is a big planet, with a strong Force pull. There's got to be more than one cave with crystals."

She didn't think there was desperation in her voice, but perhaps a bit of disappointment snuck through. Rex reached out, took her glove encased hand in his and squeezed a little. The sensation of his hand in hers was muffled by all the heavy layers surrounding their fingers, but the gesture was still appreciated and understood. She smiled a little at him, and he smiled back. Rex was no Force-sensitive, but he was getting entirely too good at reading her moods. She resisted the urge to laugh, which in turn caused her to resist the urge to kiss him fondly. They were both entirely too cold and heavily insulated to enjoy such silliness. Instead, she squeezed back as best she could through their padded hands, then shivered.

"Maybe we should head back," Rex suggested, looking down again at his scanner. "Another long climb. Then some caf. Hot caf."

She squeezed his hand again in agreement. As Rex moved back towards their hiking equipment, kicking up clouds of soft snow, Ahsoka cast one long, last look at the remains of the Crystal Cave of Ilum.

In a few years, she would have Padawans.

* * *

A final motion. A long thrust forward, legs bent, head low, chin down, invisible enemy stabbed through the heart.

She opened sky blue eyes, and found she had an audience.

Ahsoka straightened herself, tension easing through her limbs as she relaxed. A flick of a switch, and her lightsaber was extinguished, leaving them in the near darkness beside the garden. With no moons, nights on Alderaan were dark, and the brightness shining through the windows of their home was a little bit away. She smiled a little, fastened the lightsaber hilt to her waist, then put her hands on her hips. "Didn't Nura tell you to get ready for bed?"

Maera looked up at her from where she was sitting politely on the ground, legs tucked under her neatly. Her hands clasped her knees lightly. She ducked her head slightly at the admonishment, but did not seem particularly put off from being out in the garden so late. The little girl said, with a solemnity not quite fitting to her age, "That was a Shien kata, wasn't it?"

Maera was always too serious. Ahsoka wished there was an easier way for her as she stepped closer and knelt on the ground across from her, the pair facing each other. They'd found Maera half starved, terrified and alone. She'd managed to bite Fives in the arm and kick Rex in the face before they'd gotten her calmed down enough to realize they weren't Imperials or there to hurt her. The dark pink Twi'lek girl had since decided to be the older sister of any newcomers, being one of the eldest of the children they'd rescued and since brought to the relative safety of Alderaan. She was driven to succeed, and also to survive.

"It was," Ahsoka told her, waiting to see what more this was about.

Maera's fingers moved thoughtlessly on her knees, bunching the material of her skirt into her grasp. She noticed what she was doing and abruptly released the fabric, forcing her hands to stillness. When she spoke, the words were shy. "Can I see your lightsaber, Master Ahsoka?"

Ahsoka smiled, detached her lightaber from its' fastening, then released it. It floated in the air, hovering between her outstretched palms, rotating idly as Ahsoka moved her hands to steady it.

"Is it hard to make?" Maera asked, watching the floating weapon very intently.

Ahsoka flicked her fingers, and the lazy spin of the hilt became more directed. There was a click as portions detached, pieces of the saber hovering slightly apart, each detachment cast in a soft viridian glow from within. Finally, through the inner chamber of the hilt, a delicately shaped emerald emerged, a grass green crystal, pulsing faintly with its own fire. Green light lit the rest of the pieces, cast a green glow into their faces. One of Maera's hands raised, as though she would touch it. She caught herself, flinching, hand hovering midair, fingers extended.

Gently, Ahsoka let the pieces drift towards her. The girl grew wide-eyed, breath catching, then reverently accepted it, the separated sections floating just above her hands. Ahsoka pointed to each piece in turn. "Hilt. Pommel cap." She tapped them, Maera biting her lip in concentration, not wanting to drop anything. Ahsoka tried not to laugh. The lightsaber had been through far worse down the years than a nine year old accidentally dropping it onto wet grass. "Power cell, running on diatium. Inert power insulator, to keep me from getting fried when I pick it up," she said lightly, and Maera gave a small, nervous giggle at the attempt at a joke, then refocused herself. "Emitter matrix. Blade emitter, for the plasma." Ahsoka gestured outward, where the blade would be when the saber was lit. "Focusing lens."

Then, she lifted a hand, held it above the lightsaber, and drew the crystal upward slightly. Its facets glittered. She finished by saying, "Crystal. And no, it's not particularly hard to make. That's the beauty of it. Wouldn't be very practical to use if it was complicated and broke down all the time."

Maera laughed, a little more genuinely this time, and Ahsoka moved her hands, guiding the pieces back together. Slowly, the crystal sank back into the center of the hilt, the light dimming until it glowed only through seams, then was gone as it sealed. The hilt dropped into Ahsoka's waiting palm, and she grasped it with familiarity.

She waited. Maera ran her hands over her knees again. She was building up to something, her nerves apparent. Then she burst out, "Are we the last of the Jedi?"

A pause. Ahsoka looked at the girl, her face frightened and curious at the answer. She tried to think of the best way to reply.

Maera continued, and Ahsoka felt a cold curl of sorrow at her words. "It's called genocide, isn't it? I was studying in the history textbook, and that's what the word was." Her head lowered, and Maera fidgeted with the hem of her skirt again. "We never hurt anybody."

Ahsoka bent her head as well, shutting her eyes tightly for a moment as she groped for a response. Too much information, and she'd terrify the child. But she would not lie. This was the world Maera was born into, and she deserved the truth. She was going to have to talk with Echo and Nura about what the kids were learning. If Maera was already picking up on this, Rithron and Roo-Roo would not be far behind. This was too complicated for a simple answer, but she was not ready to explain the complexities of the Dark Side and the Sith and their continuing war with the Jedi to someone so young.

Carefully, feeling for words, she began, "Yes, that's the term for it. And no, we're not the last." Not quite, at least. She tried to make an encouraging smile, but wasn't sure of its effectiveness when Maera continued to look distressed. The girl radiated _apprehension_. It cut too close to her own worries. They struggled so hard to save so little, and the children were woefully behind in their studies. They'd be so much more advanced if they had Temple training. She simply was not Master Yoda, and she could not be everywhere at once. Problems and responsibilities rushed at them all in a constant stream. It was like stemming a flood with her bare hands. "We've rescued a few more families. And there's Master Yoda and Master Kenobi. And even if we were the last," she said, holding out the hilt of the lightsaber, "the Force does not discriminate. The Sith cannot get everyone, forever." She tried to sound more upbeat, and lifted the lightsaber, igniting it to illuminate them inside an emerald glow. "There's always hope for a return."

Maera was looking at the lightsaber, her head rising slowly to take in the length of plasma. More than anything else, it was that slender bright blade that represented the Jedi, their ideals. On her knees, her hands became fists. "I want to be a Jedi," she said simply, a bubble of _love_ floating to the surface. Her face was screwed up into an expression of _determination_. Then it tightened up more, and she began to struggle with tears and a spike of _fear_. "I don't want everyone to die."

It took a moment for Ahsoka to decipher her meaning, and she glanced up the soft slope of the hill leading to the house, where the rest of the children were preparing for sleep. "That's not going to happen, Maera." Ahsoka flicked the lightsaber back off, and she reached out and put a hand on top of Maera's berry pink one. "We're fighting to keep everyone safe."

She nodded a couple times, faintly, sniffled once, then contained herself. Maera was too tough for her age, and Ahsoka felt a stab of pain that it was so.

"Will I be a Padawan?"

That, at least, was an easy question to answer. "If that's what you want."

Then, more shyly, with an eye on the hilt in Ahsoka's hands, "Will I have a lightsaber too?"

Ahsoka began to smile again. "You can't be a Jedi without a lightsaber. But it's a big responsibility. Think you're ready for it?"

Maera blinked a couple times, then managed to summon a smile in return. "No, but I will be." She looked at the space Ahsoka had used for practice, now empty, then back to Ahsoka with a look of determination. "Can I learn the Shien kata?" she asked, hopefully.

Ahsoka tilted her head, the long lengths of her lekku swinging slightly above the ground. Maera wouldn't sleep being wound up and stressed. A bit of a workout might do her good. It reminded her of better days, brighter days. She'd mention it to Rex later. He'd laugh, and then understand when she could not find amusement in it anymore, such memories now so badly tarnished. "Alright," she agreed, and Maera's face lit, and she scrambled to her feet as Ahsoka stood more sedately, taking a couple steps back to give them room. She fastened her lightsaber to her side. It felt good to feel its weight there, where it belonged, not tucked and hidden away.

"What do you know, about Shien?" Ahsoka asked her.

When Maera straightened up, taking a solid stance with her hands behind her back, she suppressed a smile. She was standing at attention, much the way Waxer did when he explained things. It always amazed her how much the little ones picked up from their teachers. "Shien is the form of Perseverance. It's how you hit blaster bolts back. It's best used when outnumbered. " Maera then paused, her lekku twitching a couple times thoughtfully as she considered what she had said. A slow smile spread over her face. "I want to learn Shien," she then added.

Ahsoka nodded once, standing straight and still and tall. Then she moved slowly into the first stance, front leg forward, lightly, back leg resting solidly on the soft ground, Maera echoing the movements of her feet and the placement of her empty hands.

And so they began the process of perseverance.

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Rest of the author's notes! First, obviously, I do not own _Star Wars_. Sad, but true.

There are a variety of OC's in this fic. They are mainly restricted to minor supporting roles, and most of them are the children mentioned in this chapter. I will try to point them out at the end of each chapter to avoid confusion. Maera is an OC. The only one of the children that is not is Roo-Roo Page, the Gungan girl from the _Holocron Heist_ episode of _The Clone Wars_.

As mentioned in the first author's notes, this fic is focusing on some of the supporting cast. _Said the Joker_ centered around Ahsoka, Rex, Echo and Fives. Cody and Ventress will be joining them in the spotlight for this fic (though Ventress won't be showing up until around the second half).

I am using both the movies and _The Clone Wars_ as my canon base. I borrow periodically from the EU as it suits the story, but I am limited in my knowledge of it. I've made a lot of use of the Wookiepedia. If it's not specifically referenced in the story, it's probably not included in this timeline, either because it wasn't useful or I haven't heard of it.

Beware random flashbacks and jumps in time!

All that said, I hope you enjoy!

~Queen


	2. Knights of the Fallen Republic

_What Any of it is Worth_

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Chapter 2. Knights of the Fallen Republic

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It had begun.

He had watched the others, as they progressed. Now it was claiming him. He felt it, beginning with an ache in the head, sluggish and filling, a thick heavy syrup that oozed down through the neck and the chest and into the limbs. A general feeling of wrongness, the world not quite looking right, a ringing in the ears that only he could hear. His eyelids felt heavy, tired. He had little opportunity to be sick in his life. Injured, yes. Ill, no. He was not sure he liked it.

The steaming surface of the mug before him was appealing. The liquid gleamed from the overhead lighting, wobbling a little as he picked it up. He was not used to having anyone take care of him, in such a personal way. Nura served as surrogate mother to the children. He never had a mother, never knew what it was to have one. But he imagined it would be something like this. To have someone come and fuss over him, someone to tell, '_I don't feel so well'_ and she'd make you a cup of hot tea and put a hand to your forehead, nod sympathetically, order you to rest and take care of yourself.

Whatever was in the concoction Nura made, it was sharp, mind clearing. He sipped it and breathed in the smell, letting it into his sinuses to help cut through the headache. He knew from watching his brothers that solids would come back up as he underwent this process of changing, lengthening. The tea tasted healthy, almost flowery, so very herbal. He set the mug down onto the table before him, ran a hand over his neck where Nura had injected the serum that afternoon. There was a tiny bruise, and he could feel the bump of it aching on his skin. _Cure_, they were calling it. Long life, normal life. All it cost was a few days of sickness. Worthwhile.

There was a soft knock on the wall, and Cody looked up to see Ahsoka peering carefully around the corner of the kitchen.

* * *

She set the dishes into the cabinet, and closed it firmly.

Ahsoka stepped back, settling down onto her heels from standing on her toes to reach the shelf. She turned back to the sink, released the drain, letting the ship's recyclers take back and purify the dishwater. The galley was back in order, save for one stray plate. She turned to the side, lips pursed, unsure, worried. Absently, she patted her damp palms against her pants.

Cody sat at the table nearby, leaning back in his chair, one arm resting idly on the tabletop. He was turned slightly, head inclined towards their narrow window, watching the rainbow streaks of hyperspace flying by. His dinner sat in front of him, cold, uneaten, pushed around somewhat, giving the appearance of attempted interest.

She stepped forward, straightened one of the nearer chairs. She did not like the sense of _unease_ he was releasing into the Force. It rumbled and twisted, slow and tough. A feeling of _irritation_, of _anger_, but what made her worry was an underpinning of _guilt_ and _helplessness_. He had done much. They all had done much, but it did not always feel that way. The Empire was massive, rising, totalitarian, invincible, everywhere. They were small and alone.

"Are you finished?" she asked, and when he looked up, vaguely startled, she repeated herself, pointing at the food. He nodded, frowning, then began to return his attention to the window.

Ahsoka picked up the plate, walked to the recycler, and scraped the food into it. They were on rations of frozen, prepackaged food until they reached Alderaan and could restock fresh vegetables from the garden. The family they had delivered to a small settlement on Dantooine had eaten through the last of their fresh stores. She set the plate aside, quietly, then placed her hands on the counter beside the sink.

"Waxer will be glad to see you."

Cody turned his head, met her eyes in acknowledgment. "You got him out, then."

"Yes," she replied, a little too eagerly, then realized she did not really know what else to say. She folded her hands, left over right. He was watching her, unchanged, sitting still. She tried not to feel too awkward. She knew Cody. Had known him, at least. She had never been as close to him as Rex or other members of the 501st. Cody often spent time with them, much the way Master Kenobi did, but Master Kenobi did not spend all his time working with the 501st. Cody was often away. If asked, she would have said they were friends, but not particularly close ones. She respected him, and in turn he recognized her as a fellow Commander, young as she had been in those days, which she appreciated. Now, though, after years, she found that foundation of camaraderie unsettled. He was not Echo, who she could cheer up by initiating conversation, asking thought provoking questions. He was not Fives, who she would tease and joke with until he smiled. He was not Rex, who would seek her out for company when he was troubled, who she would comfort by sharing difficulties and responsibility and touch.

She was not sure what to do with Cody. She moved the plate into the sink, distracted, thoughtful. So much lost, fallen apart. She wanted to give him some source of hope.

Slowly, she tried again. "I don't know if Rex talked to you about this yet," she said. "About Master Kenobi."

Cody's position did not change. His expression remained still. But there was a pricking in the Force, a sharpening of interest as his focus was trained on her. A hardening in his eyes. "What about the General?"

The words were cold, somewhat defensive. He had done what he was ordered, much like every other clone Commander in the galaxy. Much like Fives had tried to do to her. If he expected her censure, he would not receive it. She straightened. "He's alive."

Cody blinked, his brows drawing down as though he did not quite hear her correctly. She waited, patiently, meeting his gaze openly to show her honesty. His face went through several rapid expressions. Confusion, disbelief, consideration, reconciliation. He snorted, then gave a darkly amused chuckle. He relaxed, arm sliding across the table as he leaned backward, resting against his chair. "No body, not dead." He ran a hand over his face. "Hell, wouldn't the Emperor be pissed to know that?"

Ahsoka smiled. The news had not changed his feelings, but the ripple of droll _amusement_ was a step in the right direction. "I hope you'll like it on Alderaan," she told him, trying to look encouraging.

He looked at her then, leaning back in his chair, not quite smiling, but not quite as upset, either. He nodded once.

"I hope I'll like it too."

* * *

There was a soft knock on the wall, and Cody looked up to see Ahsoka peering carefully around the corner of the kitchen.

"Do you have a minute?" she asked, stepping quietly into the dining area. It was late, and she was dressed for sleep, all warm comfortable clothes that looked several sizes too big. Actually, they looked suspiciously like Rex's. He hid an amused smile behind the curve of the mug, drank a mouthful, set it down, and schooled himself to a more serious face. He waved her at the chair across from him, and she pulled it out and sat, folding her hands neatly before her as she gathered her thoughts. "You're the most recent away from the Empire, Cody, so I thought you'd be the best to ask about this."

He grimaced. The last few weeks had been so peaceful. The Empire was always in the back of his mind, a blister that festered in the back of his thoughts and would not quite go away. As much of a relief as it was, Alderaan's peace was an illusion. Sooner or later, they'd be drawn into the coming storm, with Bail Organa secretly standing against Imperial rule. It was a beautiful place though, and would not see that peace shattered sooner than it needed to be. He braced himself for her questions. "What do you need to know?"

She took a breath, and he realized whatever she was about to ask would be complicated to answer. "If knowledge of the decelerating cure was widespread among clones, what do you think the response would be?"

Cody leaned back in his chair, let his hands rest on his thighs for a moment while he closed his eyes in thought. He frowned. Ahsoka wanted to save everybody. She was a good hearted girl who'd grown into a good hearted woman, but a consequence of that was that she did not often foresee the most negative outcomes. She didn't have the darkness of heart to think with the same cruelty as the Emperor. He was glad she was asking before haring off on some half baked scheme to save the galaxy. "It'd be a disaster," he told her, flatly, and watched the hesitantly hopeful look on her face fall. She stared at her hands on the table, then her mouth puckered as she tried to come up with a retort, work out a possible plan. "You're hoping to create dissent or a revolt?" he asked, and she nodded once, watching him, listening. "Brothers aren't any more important to the Empire than civilians. What do you think the Emperor would do if there was an entire colony rising up in rebellion? What _has_ he done?"

The dark stripes on her montrals seemed to fade, grow pale. She looked away for a moment, knowing the answer as well as he did. Destroy the colony, rip it out by the roots, leave no one left to dissent. Kill everyone. Her clasped hands tightened together. "There must be some way of saving more people," she said after a time. "I refuse to accept doing nothing."

He could not quite help but smile. "You've done plenty," he told her. "You and Rex, Echo and Fives. Even if all you did was get Waxer and me out, you four have done more than anyone else I know. We're not strong enough to make a full scale move against the Empire. We regroup, wait for the right time, then strike."

She smiled back, tilted her head to the side a little, lifted a white brow. "Preaching patience, Cody? Sounds like Master Kenobi's rubbed off on you."

Cody chuckled. "There are worse people in the galaxy." He grimaced as his stomach cramped uncomfortably. He reached for the mug of cooling tea and gulped down the dregs, the herbal taste turning bitter from bits of leaf congregating at the bottom. "We've got people to start with, Ahsoka. We'll start with the brothers we can reach now, then worry about the ones we can't."

Her face was serious, and he could tell she was already pondering new angles. He tried to smile again, but his stomach contracted, and he grunted, gripping it with an arm as it made several disturbing gurgling noises. Ahsoka was leaning forward, half out of her chair in alarm. "Cody?"

"I'm alright," he bit out. "Nura gave me the hypo a few hours ago. Seems the metabolic changes are kicking in."

She eased back into her seat, still looking concerned. "May I?" she asked, and it took him a moment to understand what she meant. He nodded once. Ahsoka lifted her hand from the surface of the table, let her fingers hover in the air as her eyes became half lidded in concentration. Then there was a warmth around him, as though someone had just wrapped a warm cloak around his shoulders and offered him something hot to drink. The heat melted its way through his body, filling him. His stomach grumbled once again in protest, clenching, then as the warmth suffused his belly, it relaxed. He did not realize how tense he had become in those few moments, until he was able to straighten himself up again. He had begun to sweat.

"Thanks," he said. She smiled in return, flicking her fingers and shaking her head, dismissive of her actions.

"Anytime, but it won't last too long, so I'd get some rest soon," she advised, standing. "I appreciate the advice, Cody."

He looked up at her, at the encouraging, sympathetic expression she wore. He was surprised, those weeks ago, when she and Rex first bid him good night, then turned to go into the same room. Rex had given him a slightly sheepish smile before he'd followed her. Cody had found it a little strange at the time. In some ways, he still did. His old friend always had a protective streak towards the young Jedi, but he'd never thought it would advance so far. In those days before the Empire, there was no possibility for it to advance. Now they shared a room, shared goals, shared work, shared efforts, both working in such obvious tandem it was clear they were happy together, in spite of everything else.

It seemed so normal. So very unlike the life of a clone trooper, and so very much like the life of a normal human being. Like having a mother. Looking at Ahsoka now, he was somewhat discomfited to realize he was jealous. Not of Ahsoka herself, but rather what she represented. A life outside of the army, a friend and a companion who was not a man with a face identical to his own. A responsibility to a person of his choosing. A pretty girl to share a bed with. He told himself the sudden ache inside was from the metabolic changes.

A new life was opening up before him, and he was not quite sure what to do with it.

Not yet.

He smiled up at her. He had the time, now - the time and freedom - to figure it out.

"You're welcome, Ahsoka," he told her.

"Good night, Cody," she said gently, then turned, and left.

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First off, I wanted to send a big thank you to everyone who has so kindly taken the time to review! Elven-Spear, KittyCaterpillar, LongLiveTheClones, Jadedsnowtiger, littlelionluvr, LostLyra, Librarian Girl, almostinsane, TheRedFredDeadDude, Evil Tree, Darth Jedi, SoClose, and lady gaga! Your words are much appreciated, and you've given me many more comments than I was expecting for this fic! Thank you so much!I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

Til next time,

~Queen


	3. Reuniting the Deserters

_What Any of it is Worth_

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Chapter 3. Reuniting the Deserters

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It had been some six years since he had been to this world.

The speeder bike moved quickly over the smooth terrain, bulbous trees and long fields of grain whizzing past as Rex steered them forward, his arms stretched out to command the bike forward at a faster pace. Wind was roaring past his ears, stinging his face with its sharpness. Had they been moving slow enough for anyone to get a good look, an observer would have seen something halfway between a smirk and a smile on his lips. It was good to be in the fresh air, even if it was moving so fast around him that he considered wishing for his old helmet to keep his eyes from drying. Still, it felt good. Ahsoka was tucked into the seat behind him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist as they flew forward. He could feel her forehead pressing into the back of his shoulder.

It was nearly sunset, though sunsets came early here. They headed west, into the broad orange sun, past rolling hills and more trees, speeder humming below them. The further from the town they went, the more rural the scenery became. Farmsteads could be spotted in the distance, with barns standing tall against the growing shadows of the evening. Eopies could be periodically spotted in the fields, clustered in small herds.

The way to the homestead was simple enough to remember, though it had been so long. They banked to the left, following a branch of the muddy road below them. The land had changed somewhat as well, subtle changes wrought by time and weather. There seemed to be more occupied fields than he remembered, though perhaps that was only a trick of his memory.

In the distance, another farm could be seen, at first seeming nothing more than a few dark frames against the red-orange sky behind them. But these had a familiar look to them, a round barn to the left and an almost boot-shaped house to the right. There were changes, there, too. There was a large shed off to one side, beyond the barn, which sported a fresh coat of russet paint. A small structure he guessed to be a nuna house could be seen, some wire mesh enclosing it. As they drew closer, some yellow light was shining visibly from the house's windows. A couple of small figures were running between the buildings, and he slowed the speeder bike as they drew closer.

There were two of them. A boy and a girl, both Twi'lek. They hovered, curiously, the girl on her toes, nearly bouncing, and the boy a step behind, seeming to almost peer around her. He slowed the speeder further, then eased it to a stop. They stared up at him. Rex looked down at the girl first and smiled.

She blinked, then brightened in recognition, mouth falling open as she raised a finger to point at Rex's face. When he lifted his brows, expectantly, her response was to turn, shouting, "Dad! Mom! You've got to come see! _Daddy_!" as she broke into a run for the fields beyond the homestead. Blue and peach spangled lekku bounced along behind her as she raced forward.

Rex chuckled, and from a thrum he could feel vibrating against his back, Ahsoka was quietly laughing as well. She eased away from him, swung her leg over the back of the speeder, and dismounted. Rex followed suit, then looked at the boy. "Hello, Jekk," he said, and received a solemn look of appraisal in return. Jekk looked at Rex, then Ahsoka, then Rex again. He shuffled his feet slightly, then began to smile. He'd grown. The last time Rex had seen either Jekk or his older sister Shaeeah, they were much younger. Six years showed quite visibly on children. Jekk's pale orange lekku had lengthened out, and he had grown quite a bit taller, though had not yet begun to show an adolescent's awkward lankiness.

"I remember you," he said to Rex. "From when those droids came." He looked at the speeder bike, then back up the path, a small crease forming between his brows.

"No droids this time," Rex assured him. "We need to talk to your parents."

He turned slightly, towards the fields. "Shaeeah's getting them," he said, just as the girl burst back into view, jumping and pointing, two other figures trailing after her, one a pink skinned Twi'lek woman, the other a human man with an entirely too familiar face.

Cut Lawquane had lived on Saleucami for some seven years now. Rex straightened, and Ahsoka edged slightly closer to him in solidarity. The years showed almost as clearly on him as they did on the children. Cut's hair, still tugged back into a tail at the nape of his neck, now showed thin streaks of grey streaming back from his temples. Fine lines were visible around the corners of his eyes and lips, evidence of more laughter than worries down the years. When he spotted Rex, he stopped, eyes growing wide, taking in his presence and appearance. Rex no longer wore a uniform or armor, though he kept his scalp shaved clean as he always had. Instead he wore civilian clothes, accented with bits of armor and a non-military grade blaster on his hip.

Cut smiled, stepped forward, and extended a hand. "Hello, Rex."

"Cut," Rex returned, clasping it briefly.

Cut looked from Rex to Ahsoka and back again, amusement apparent on his face. "So, what brings you all the way out here? Not another injury, I hope?"

Rex shook his head, looking at the man and his family. The two children hovered close by, each watchful in their own ways. Shaeeah looked like she wanted to burst into questions the moment she was given permission. Jekk stood more quietly, observing the exchange with sharp attention. Their mother, Suu, stood quietly beside her husband, clearly trying to suppress a sense of worry, her hands wringing slightly as she watched. The last time he was here, there was a battle that destroyed half her home, and he represented the threat of reporting Cut's desertion. There were obvious differences now, but his presence would not appear to bode well for the family. He hoped to put her at ease soon.

"No injuries," Rex assured him, then turned slightly to the side, gestured to Ahsoka. "This is Ahsoka."

She stepped forward, extended a hand, first to Cut, then to Suu. Rex was torn between laughter, pride and embarrassment when Cut gave him a particularly knowing look after greeting the Togruta. Cut's smile only broadened as he felt his face redden. He tried to clear his throat and look at the sky.

"Good to meet you, Ahsoka," Cut said. "My wife, Suu. Our kids, Shaeeah and Jekk."

"It's good to meet all of you," she replied politely, then looked at Rex, lifting a brow and looking as amused as Cut at his discomfiture. "If it's alright, I think we should talk inside."

That announcement sobered the welcome smiles, Cut and Suu growing serious, worried.

"It's not bad," Ahsoka said. "Really. But it's complicated." She shifted to the side, made a motion to slightly heft the heavy black knapsack on her back. Within it lay a hypospray and a durasteel tube filled with serum. Rex stepped closer to her, placed a hand on her shoulder.

"We'd appreciate some of your time," Rex said to the family, and they exchanged glances.

Cut spoke then, for all of them. "Of course. You're always welcome here. Come on inside."

* * *

Together, they were a wall of grey.

Twelve men stood still, alert, hands at their sides, backs straight, feet together, _at attention_. Grey training uniforms free of dust and wrinkles, perfect, smooth, polished, each identical to the next, as were the men themselves. One or two, here and there along the line, sported a different cut to their hair, and a few also bore scars from training exercises that the others could not boast of. The tiny differences stood out starkly to each of them, though one who was not a clone, as they were, perhaps may not notice. These little differences, little individualities, were treasured, however they came about, whatever they were.

The sergeant stood before them, so very similar, the perfect image of these men in another two years. A couple of scars, a few lines of worry that took up residence on his face, lines which did not yet occupy theirs. He too stood with his back straight, but his hands rested at the base of his spine, folded.

In a crisp voice, he began, "You are among the best." He paced, walking down the line, staring into the faces of the men before him. "Your responsibilities are accordingly greater. The men below you will rely on you. On your judgment." He paused, looking one of them in the face for a long moment. CC-7567 tried not to breathe, kept his eyes locked forward. He tried not to clench his fists. After a moment, the sergeant stepped away, inspecting the next man, then the next. Rex breathed again, shallowly, tried not to let his eyes wander the room, down to the far end, where a table and a line of helmets lay in a row. Another trooper, an armorer, stood behind them. He would know which was his soon enough.

"It is up to you to keep your brothers alive. As many of them as you can, for as long as you can. Whatever order your were taken out of those cloning vats, whatever number you were assigned, is irrelevant now. _You_ are the older brothers. _You_ are the leaders, and if you do _not_ lead, not only you, but the men who rely on you will suffer for it, and they will die for it. You have a duty to them. Never forget that. We are all brothers."

Twelve men straightened, stiffening at the final words, at the sound of finality and of responsibility. It settled like a weight on twelve sets of shoulders. The sergeant took a step back, then walked to the table and picked up a datapad.

The first number was called. Then the next. Another. One by one, down the row, men stepped forward, received their orders, left. Rex stood frozen in place, waiting in the middle of the row.

"CC-7567!"

A step forward. "Sir, yes sir!"

"Captain! You are ordered to report to the 501st Legion, under the command of General Anakin Skywalker! Collect your helmet."

"Sir, yes sir!" came the repeated words. He turned on a heel, sharply, strode forward three steps. The armorer lifted a white helmet, with a single stripe of blue above the dark slit of the visor. The rest was clean, shiny and new. Just like him. He tucked it neatly under his arm, turned again, moved to the door, then the hallway.

Two others stood there. Not waiting. Looking. They seemed to pay no attention to the next man out, and Rex stepped past them quickly. Then he paused. The two brothers stood staring at their helmets, each identical to his, white with a stripe of distinguishing color. Each bore different shades, one of red and the other pale green. The colors of their companies, their legions. The color of their duty.

Rex stepped around the corner, out of sight of his brothers, then he too hesitated for a moment, and looked at his. It seemed to frown at him, anonymous, the matte black t-slit impenetrable. Amid a battlefield, with smoke and haze and bursting weapons fire, it would be terrifying. He tilted it from one side to another, letting the harsh white lights overhead catch on the gloss of the helmet's dome. This was his battle face. It was too plain. It needed more blue. Royal, deep sky blue, a brighter color. He ran a hand over the space above the stripe, over the whiteness. It would be dirty soon enough.

This was the face of duty.

* * *

He swept the last of the dirt into a pile on the floor, then brushed it into a dustpan.

Suu was wiping her hands on a dishtowel, drying them. Rex looked out the front door, which was propped open to catch the evening's cool breeze. Across the yard, he could see the barn, the door of which was also open. Cut was moving around inside, swiftly, almost nervously shifting things around, cleaning, clearing a space for himself and Ahsoka for the night, and the next few nights to come. They offered to stay and help with the harvest, since Cut would be having stomach troubles the next few days. He would take the hypospray in the morning, after a good sleep. For now, though, he needed a little quiet time to himself.

Rex understood. What they were offering was a great deal to take in. Cut had not quite believed them at first. It had taken Suu covering her mouth with her hands and turning away, breath catching, for the truth of it to sink in.

"Suu?" Rex asked, holding the dustpan a little uncertainly. "Where does this go?"

She turned to him, then reached under the sink and pulled out a garbage bin. "Here," she offered, holding it out, giving him the somewhat strange look she had been giving him most of the evening. Dinner had been strange as well. Suu tried to cook, Cut tried to assist her, both refused to let either Rex or Ahsoka aid them, but both were so badly distracted by the offering of the decelerating cure that dinner had turned out as a humble, half burnt, half undercooked mess. Nobody seemed to mind. There was a giddy nervousness in the air, a disbelieving, shocked kind of hope that had struck the family by surprise.

"Rex?" Suu said, setting the bin aside and seeming as though she were bracing herself to speak. "I wanted to thank you. This is the second time you have given my husband back to me. I know there is nothing I can do to repay you, but I wanted to thank you, at least."

She was slowly beginning to smile up at him, blue eyes brimming with gratitude. Cut would age more slowly now, adding years to his life, years he would spend here, with Suu and Shaeeah and Jekk. He would grow old with Suu, and be able to watch Shaeeah and Jekk become adults. Perhaps even see grandchildren someday. Suu seemed to understand the repercussions of what they offered very clearly. Rex gripped the broom handle lightly. He wanted to brush it off. He was trying to do the same for as many brothers as he could, and it was not him who had found the cure. That was the Nulls. He could take no such credit. They deserved it. "I'm just a messenger," he told her. "And a delivery boy, feels like," he added with a bit of a lighter tone.

If anything, Suu's happiness increased. It was not the first time in the evening she had seemed on the verge of tears. "Then it is a very good thing you deliver."

He was gracious. "You're welcome."

She nodded once, gratefully, then looked out the door to watch Cut hauling what looked like a mattress across the barn. Suu's expression changed from grateful to soft, loving, while she watched him, then she shook her head once, as though to clear it and bring herself back to reality. "I'll see if I can find some blankets for you and your friend," she said, the final word coming out with a somewhat more teasing tone, a brow lifting. Rex almost laughed. If Cut was a brother, in some strange way that made Suu family as well. She turned, and left, climbing the stairs.

Rex looked for a corner to place the broom in. He ended up leaning it against their conservator, in the nook where it met the wall. He leaned back, looking at the appliance. It was covered in pieces of flimsi, fastened in place by brightly colored magnets. Each piece of flimsi carried a drawing. Some, on more yellowed pieces, were not as well done as the rest, the result of a younger hand. Others, all of them mixed together, seemed newer, better drawn. Some were of sunsets. Others boasted black sky and Saleucami's double moons. There was one of the fields of grain, the head of an eopie poking up from the middle, as though it had just lifted its head, startled from grazing. There was a picture of a couple of older Wroonians standing together, fastened beside a picture of three Gran, two adults with a toddler between them.

In the center of the conservator, though, there seemed to be space reserved for a series of pictures. At the bottom was an old, yellowed one. He frowned at it, then looked at the picture of the Gran again. The two adults were included in the picture, if he was not mistaken. They were bright orange and oddly shaped, but had a set of three black eyes as they should. Nearby stood Cut and Suu, standing on either side of the children. The three Twi'leks had their lekku standing up on top of their heads like wild, bright antennae. Cut had a blob of black surrounding his head like a halo gone horribly wrong. Rex snorted once in laughter, leaned down to get a better look at it, smiled. He slowly stood, and the higher he went, the better and more accurate the pictures became. The top one showed four figures. Three were clearly Twi'lek, their lekku hanging down their backs. Suu stood behind Shaeeah, her hands on her shoulders. Cut stood behind Jekk, one arm around Suu and his other hand resting on Jekk's shoulder.

A family portrait, in crayon.

A cheerful sun was sketched into the corner, and fields of grain around the sides. It was still the work of a child, but a growing one. Rex reached out, placed a hand on the surface of the flimsi, felt the smoothness of it and the waxy lines of the crayon drawn upon it.

"_I've seen how you look at my family. Our home_."

He looked around again, at the table where they had eaten dinner that night, so many years ago, where Cut first challenged his thoughts on the meaning of family and how it related to duty and to choice. They had eaten dinner at this table tonight, as well. It was the same kitchen, with the same dejarik table in the corner, but with six years of change and growth between those two moments in time.

"_I have a duty. But it's to my __**family**_."

The 501st had been his family. The men he fought beside, kept alive, through so many campaigns and battles. He had no regrets, the first time he left. He had been going to his home, his family.

The 501st was gone. At least the 501st he knew and protected and loved. He did not regret its loss, but he did mourn it. Too many good men, gone and dead and changed beyond recognition, much like their general. He could not lead the 501st as it was now. That family was dead, murdered by circumstance and the machinations of an evil man.

"_You've thought about what your life could look like if you were to also leave the army. Choose the life you want_."

The four faces in the portrait looked back at him, endlessly smiling, the crayon yellow sun shining pleasantly above them.

Their conservator did not look very different from the one at home on Alderaan. Pictures cycled through more quickly there, with so many more children. Nura and Waxer made sure they all had new pictures up for at least a week though. Pictures were also often stuck to bedroom doors, usually with the names of those who lived within drawn in bright primary colors.

Dinner was always a raucous mess, even though it was served buffet style out of the kitchen. Children of various ages running around with plates and cups, adults trying to organize, keep people from spilling food or throwing it at others or shouting or teasing. It was rowdier than the mess hall after a victory, and more colorful too, with half a dozen different species sitting together and trying to eat every night. Then there was free time, and games and more shouting and more running, and then bedtime and books and stories and lights out. Finally there was time without the children, and while they slept, he and his few brothers, along with Ahsoka and Nura, would sit and talk and clean the kitchen, share news and stories and memories.

Then there would be sleep for themselves, and their day would start all over again.

Rex ran a hand over his face. It was different than the 501st. Those were his brothers, and always would be. Other clones would always be his brothers. Always a part of his family. But in addition to them, he also had a closer circle of brothers, a dozen children he'd helped to take in. A family of his choosing, a life he wanted, outside the army.

"Rex?" a voice said from behind him, and he turned to see Ahsoka standing hesitantly at the edge of the kitchen. She was dressed in her day clothes, but holding a damp towel, having been in the refresher. She looked worried. "Are you alright?"

He managed a smile. "Just thinking," he admitted, looking again at the conservator and its pictures. Ahsoka stepped up beside him, joined him in his admiration.

"Looks like back home," she said gently.

He looked down at her. She was focused on the flimsi, on the portrait of the family before her. Of Suu and Cut and Shaeeah and Jekk. She smelled like soap and water, clean, freshly showered.

The words came thoughtlessly. "Let's get married."

Ahsoka blinked once, then looked up at him, startled.

When the silence began to draw on, he shifted a little. "Unless you don't want to."

He could not quite read her expression for a few moments. Then she reached up, placed her hand on his cheek, and stood on her toes to kiss him lightly. She leaned back and smiled, her montrals turning a very dark shade in her flush.

Rex reached out, slipped an arm around her waist. She held the towel to her with one arm. The other she wrapped around him, then leaned against his side. They looked at the crayon drawings.

Suu found them still standing that way several minutes later.

* * *

First off, I wanted to give a great big thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter!** rabbitwriter, fangirlscreams, TamachanKICK, CCAdventures, Librarian Girl, lady gaga, Jadedsnowtiger, almostinsane, LongLiveTheClones, RedFredDeadDude, littlelionluvr, SoClose and beastiesister**! I really appreciate all the comments and kind feedback. You're all awesome!

The pictures on the family conservator are lifted out of another one of my fics, _Homestead_. It doesn't have any real impact on the _Said the Joke_r timeline, but in the most technical sense, they exist in the same universe, so to speak.

As always, I hope you enjoyed!

~Queen


	4. Echo and Narcissus

_What Any of it is Worth_

_

* * *

_

Chapter 4. Echo and Narcissus

* * *

It was a battlefield.

As Echo looked out across the melee, something exploded, glittering, arching overhead and falling back to the ground as someone screamed, running frantically from the site of impact. There came a series of shouts, shrieks. Everywhere there were bits of multicolored flimsi. There were a few yellow smears of paint on one of the walls. And then there was glue. There was a girl crying at a child-sized table because the boy beside her had smeared glue into her hair. Something tore, and a ripping sound filled the air. Something else fell with a bang. He found himself quickly scrambling out of the way of the outraged girl, who was now red faced and chasing the boy while screaming vengeance and waving her own bottle of glue. Echo flattened himself against the doorframe, open mouthed.

He'd always had the impression libraries were quiet.

Into the mess waded a woman, face drawn taut as she marched straight for the glue covered girl, plucked the bottle out of her hands, spun her around, pointed towards Echo and the door, and said, "Refresher with you. Now." Then she wheeled on the boy. "_Glue_?" she demanded, hands in fists, fists on hips. Echo could not see her face with her back to him, but her voice sounded chillingly like an annoyed drill sergeant building up to a thorough dressing down. He winced. The boy had been laughing a moment earlier. Now his eyes were huge and swelling with tears. "Corner. Sit." She pointed. "Stay there until your father arrives. Then we'll discuss your behavior."

The boy's head hung, and he glumly shuffled to the appointed corner. The woman's shoulders slumped with momentary exhaustion, then she straightened herself, spun sharply enough on her heel to set a thick black braid swinging out like a pendulum behind her. She dove back into the fray.

The children at home could not interact only with each other their entire lives. The five oldest were allowed down into town once a week, their abilities controlled enough and their understanding of _keeping a secret_ strong enough that Echo, Waxer and Nura believed they would be able to handle the exposure to the outside world. The five were ecstatic at the opportunity. Waxer usually packed them into the speeder and brought them down to the town's little library for a reading program, but Echo wanted a few hours to run errands of his own in town. It was easy enough to drop them off for a couple hours and take care of his own business.

The building was small, as the town was small. Echo suddenly understood why this room was in the back, away from other patrons and the glowing stacks of holobooks and holonet terminals. It was set up for children, with tables placed low to the floor and large recycle bins in bright, primary colors lined up against the wall. There were nooks filled with art supplies, and a shelf with battered children's flimsibooks just above them.

Echo picked out his kids. Maera, Rithron, Roo-Roo, Thoosa and Temese. They were, fortunately, sitting at a table in one corner, together, and though they had a sufficiently large pile of brightly colored scrap flimsi growing around them, they did not seem to be putting glue on each other, launching things into the air, or generally trying to wreak havoc. He sighed, leaned against the wall for a moment in relief, watching them.

Then the woman was walking toward him with deliberation, and he straightened. She was smiling in greeting, but it did not quite hide her look of exasperation. "You're a bit early," she began, glancing at the chrono on the wall. "Maybe a few more minutes to finish up." She paused then, tilting her head to the side. Then she looked at him again, harder, toe to head, taking in his style of clothing, his posture, his way of holding himself, the lack of recognition on his face. She stated, abruptly, in a slightly puzzled tone, "You're not Waxer."

"Ah, no," Echo confirmed. It was not the first time since he had opted to remain on Alderaan he'd been mistaken for Waxer during a trip to town. Rex, Fives and now Cody stayed away. Two men with matching faces might be explainable. Three or more was already proven to be suspicious. So far, there had been little questioning beyond queries about being twins. "We're brothers," Echo told her. "I'm helping out at the orphanage for awhile. I'm Echo."

He was not quite sure he was comfortable under her gaze. She was slightly shorter than him, the fine line of her neck rising smoothly out from the collar of her blouse. The woven braid of her hair hung lightly over one shoulder, a shade of black dark enough to appear almost blue. Her chin was tilted upward to better peer into his face with dark, almond shaped eyes. Those eyes were inquisitive, and were scrutinizing him far more sharply more than he was comfortable with. It felt strange, to have such a pretty woman observing him so intently, and he broke eye contact, shuffling back a step to give himself a moment to gather his wits together again.

"Suisen," she said simply, extending a hand.

Unsettled or not, it would be rude to reject her hand. He accepted it, politely. Her grasp was firm, her hand small, well formed and long fingered, nut-brown, warm. There was paint under her fingernails, and it was orange. He could not quite help but smile, and when he looked up again, he realized there was a streak of green paint smudged across her forehead, the tips of her bangs also encrusted in the color. She wore a thick canvas apron over a long skirt, and it too was covered in paint and glue splatters, as well as something sparkly. As she took back her hand, she reached up to her hair and tucked a stray strand neatly away from her face. "It's good to meet you. Things aren't usually quite this disorganized," she told him quietly, turning slightly to the side to watch the room, lips drawn into a tired little frown. "We're short handed today, and I couldn't get anyone else to help cover."

A note of weariness crept into her voice, and he looked at her again. In spite of the harried situation she was caught in, she stood tall, her attention moving from table to table, her weight forward on her feet as though she were ready to leap back into the tangle of tables the moment something went flying again. He tilted his head to the side, regarding her. There was resolution on her face, determination in the tiredness, but also a hint of warmth as she looked across the room at the gaggle of children weaving together a daily craft. He'd never been left alone with all the children before – the fact she was managing to hold them all together, if barely, allowed for a feeling of respect. He smiled a little, watching her watch them.

"Do you need help?" he offered. She looked up at him, smiled slightly. The paint on her face suited her somehow, creating a softer contrast to the rest of her appearance. She did not carry herself in a particularly maternal manner, and the clothing he could see under her apron was not the same kind of comfy clothing Nura wore when she knew she was going to be dealing with a herd of messy children doing art projects. Beneath the apron there was professional wear, a smart suit, just recognizable under the bulky, paint splattered covering. He wondered if she was the usual librarian in charge of children's programming. Waxer would know. He wondered if she knew there was green in her hair.

There was a flicker of amusement in her eyes when she looked at him, and he realized he'd been caught staring. He quickly broke eye contact, shuffled a little in place. She shifted her own position as well, mirroring his and angling herself slightly closer, causing him to flush. Her smile broadened almost mischievously, and she stepped back a bit, giving him more space. She said, in a tone almost laughing with warmth, "No, thank you though. We're nearly done." She paused and added, "Other parents should be arriving soon." She cast a glance towards the boy in the corner. He had tried to edge his way back towards the tables. She put her hands onto her hips, arched an eyebrow, and he scooted back to where he belonged.

"Echo! Echo! We finished!" came a pair of shouts, and then Thoosa and Temese were stampeding their way to him, Thoosa waving a stack flimsi in the air. The two human children skidded to a stop in front of him. "Look what we made!"

Temese grabbed at the flimsi stack, and Thoosa scolded, "Don't tear it!" and was ignored. They held it up between them, one on each end, an oversized book made of flimsi, paint, and crayon, all glued together on one side.

"Look, there's animals inside," Temese enthused, opening it and turning it to a page with a scrawling attempt at a nexu, all sharp teeth and yellow fur. Underneath, it proclaimed in proud crayon letters, "NEXU ARE BIG AND HAVE BIG TEETHS."

"And they aren't all monsters," Thoosa added, turning the page to reveal a drawing of a mooka with a pair of oversized ears and an array of red and green feathers. "Is it cute?" she asked, hopefully.

"Very cute, Thoosa. You going to read it to everyone tonight?"

The pair looked at each other, then back to Echo, replying in unison, "Yes!"

Beside him, she moved a little, her long skirt swaying with the motion, and it brought his attention back to her. Suisen was standing to the side, her head tilted slightly, with an amused smile curling about her mouth as she watched the exchange. Her eyes met his, and seemed to gleam with that same amusement. He wondered what she saw to cause it. It warmed him, and though part of it was embarrassment at her attention, part of it was something else, something new and oddly wanting.

Her hands were neatly folded now, resting in front of her. He had an odd impulse reach out and clasp one again. They were beautiful hands, even with orange rimmed nails.

Then there was a shriek, and she sighed, shaking her head once, slowly, and then was turning, wading her way back into battle, armored in her apron. He followed her movements, the long rope of her hair swinging as she turned, admonished, soothed, moved around and stepped over various obstacles and children and tables.

It would not be the last time he watched her.

* * *

Rex clearly felt torn about the flowers on his head.

He kept fidgeting with them, moving to remove them, and then hesitating, remembering how proudly Neaera and Ctesius had looked when they had presented the pair of flower crowns, one for Rex and one for Ahsoka. They were a multitude of colors, plucked from every currently flowering plant in the garden, including some of the vegetables. Nura had showed the children how to weave them together into a ring that morning, how to wind the stems and fasten the strand into a wearable crown of blossoms.

Echo could not quite keep the grin off his face, looking at the scene. He wasn't sure what was funnier; Rex wearing flowers, or Rex desperately trying to figure out a way of removing them without hurting the younglings' feelings.

It was a good day. One of the rare ones when they were all home, which was why it was chosen. The weather, for the most part, cooperated. A bright day, sunny and warm with a cool breeze from the mountains, sweeping steadily across the lawn and setting the grass to rippling. Food was spread on the table on the verandah, mostly sweets and sandwiches. On the grass lay blankets, their corners tamped down with rocks to keep them from blowing away. Children sat on them, eating sticky sesame cakes or cookies, the adults interspersed between them. Rex and Ahsoka were sitting towards the front, in what passed for nice clothing for them. Rex wore a crisp white shirt, Ahsoka a dark blue dress. Their legs stretched out across their knitted blanket, bare feet tipping over the edge into the grass.

They'd exchanged a pair of plain silver rings, speaking vows made up of promises and memories, almost too soft for anyone else to hear. The moment was strangely private, though there were so many surrounding them, peering and straining to listen. They stood closely, their foreheads not quite touching, bodies curling in towards the other. When they were finished with their words, they shared a smile, gentle but sparkling, and a lingering kiss that sent the younglings into fits of giggles.

It was as much of a wedding as they could have. A little party, consisting of their friends who still lived, gathered together to celebrate. Ahsoka was a Jedi, believed to be dead, and if it were known she lived she would be hunted. Rex was a clone, and never had a legal status to begin with. There could be no true ceremony, no documentation, no announcements made. There was no one to preside over their union. This was all the acknowledgment they could have. Echo frowned down into his cup of steamed spice wine, sipped it. It was sweet, almost heady, a rare splurge for their group to buy. He tried to savor it, but it did not taste quite as good as he expected. He felt too sour for enjoying the treat.

Rex was very fortunate, to have this.

A shadow fell across him in the shape of Cody, who then plopped down onto the blanket beside him, a cup of wine in his own hand. "Try to look less like Nura made traditional Gungan swamp food again, Echo," Cody admonished lightly, eyes on the figures sitting on the blanket in front, taking a mouthful of his own alcohol.

For a moment, Echo wanted to apologize, address Cody as 'sir' and assure him it would not happen again. He caught himself. Cody was no longer a commander. Not technically, anyway. He was right though. Echo forced a more relaxed look onto his face. Ahsoka was smiling wickedly and trying to convince Rex to eat some of the cake she was offering. Judging by the look on her face, he suspected she was scheming to smash it into his mouth if he leaned in close enough. Rex seemed to have the same suspicion, and was not being tempted in.

He was happy for them. He genuinely did not like his persistent twitch of annoyance about it, and the accompanying desire to reach out and take someone's hand with his own. A long fingered, nut-brown, warm hand, preferably. He could almost feel his palm itch. His fingers flexed around the cup of wine. "They're very lucky," Echo said aloud, feeling as though he should say something, to let Cody know he was trying.

The former commander turned his attention from the couple to give him a searching look. His brows lifted, then he returned his attention to the wine, swishing it around the cup a few times. After a moment, he said, "It's been good to have a rest, these past few months. I'm not sure how much longer it'll last."

Echo turned to him. "You're leaving?"

Cody shook his head. "Don't know. Not yet. Eventually, maybe. There's a lot out there," he made a broad gesture towards the blue sky and the sun and the space beyond it with his cup. "It'll be good to make decisions for myself for a change, I think." He sipped at his drink, smiling skyward. "Good for all of us."

Warm hands, orange paint under the nails. Dark eyes, amused, almond-shaped. Echo frowned again, drank again, leaned forward, shoulders slightly slumped down. "We've got to be careful, with what we do, though," he said quietly, looking over the little crowd gathered on blankets on the grass. Rithron was trying to tease Maera by threatening her with cakey, goo-covered hands. She was rolling her eyes and having none of it. Roo-Roo was covering her mouth with her hands, trying not to laugh too hard, her lengthening ear flaps arching upward as she giggled. "We're not just responsible for ourselves."

Nodding wisely, Cody leaned backward onto his elbows. "True. But I'd like to live a little for myself, too."

There was the sound of applause. It was the steady kind that encouraged others to join in and make the sound in unison. It was Nura, her hands raised high, though not quite above her head, her long mouth smiling brightly. Within one or two more beats, all the children had joined her, their smaller hands making lighter sounds. Clap, _clap_. Two heavier beats joined in, the sound of Waxer and Fives, broader palms striking each other. Clap, _clap_. Cody set down his drink and joined in. _Clap, clap_.

Rex and Ahsoka, sitting in the front, looked a bit bewildered, their attention being drawn from each other. Nura laughed, calling out to explain, "Yousa are supposed to be doing the kissing!"

Several of the younglings stopped clapping, to either cover their faces in flushed embarrassment, or to groan and complain about how icky that was. Rex started chuckling, and Ahsoka gave him a small smile. They exchanged a quick, almost shy kiss, which prompted several squeals of laughter.

"Different kind of risks we take these days," Cody told Echo as he picked up his cup again, then stood. "Be sure the risk's worth it," he advised, looking down at the younger brother on the blanket. "We've given up enough of our freedom already." Standing above him, much of Cody's face was cast into shadow, but Echo could still see the smile there, the encouragement.

Echo looked out over the assembly of children and brothers and women. It was a dangerous thing, venturing out too much into the galaxy. Force-sensitive children and brothers who'd deserted were valuable targets. The more people in the circle, the more dangerous it became. Alderaan was home. To let a stranger in would be to place their lives in her hands.

He looked at Fives, at Waxer, sitting on different blankets, the heads of younglings bobbing around them as they talked and ate. He looked at Rex, sitting beside Ahsoka. Rex, their serious, stoic Captain, looking almost ridiculous with a bunch of flowers on his head, eating cake and smiling.

Were the rest of them meant to spend their lives alone? Even now that they had some measure of freedom?

Cody was giving him permission.

There was another burst of laughter as Ahsoka finally managed to convince Rex to accept the cake from her hands. She tried to smash it into his face as Echo expected, but didn't get too far. Rex moved aside and caught her wrist. They ended up staring at each other and laughing.

Echo took another drink and nodded once, mostly to himself.

He wanted that happiness.

* * *

The grey stone steps were wide, and Suisen was coming down them.

At the bottom of the staircase, Echo froze. He thought he'd have a few more minutes to prepare himself. The plan was to go on a day there were no children to be a distraction. He would look for her, ask for some sort of help, then ever so casually segue into conversation. Then maybe next week, do it again. And then the week after that, maybe try asking her if she liked to eat in restaurants. It would be very simple, and in his head, he always sounded perfectly intelligent and composed. Casual, like he asked women out all the time, and this was absolutely no different. The research he did on the holonet insisted that confidence was key. If he could charge into a war zone against a battalion of Separatist battle droids, he was sure he could manage extending an invitation to dinner. He had a plan. He just needed to follow it.

But she was clearly leaving work for the day. He didn't know her schedule, just assumed she'd be there. In his head, in the little mental practice runs he made, she was always there. There was a small purse tucked under her arm. She wore no apron, no green paint in her hair. The length of braid that always fell neatly down the middle of her back was now over her shoulder, bouncing slightly as she descended the stairs. His plans flew out the window when she looked up.

Suisen blinked once, then smiled in recognition. "Hello, Echo," she said, coming to a stop before him on the sidewalk. She shifted her purse under her arm a little and tilted her head to the side, drawing attention to the nice, long line of her neck, which rose above the modest collar of her grey suit. She lifted a brow while he frantically debated the wisdom of trying to talk to her on the sidewalk, or making a break for the library doors and trying again later when he could sound more confident and composed.

While he deliberated, she reached up, calmly, and removed the band holding her braid together, smooth fingers unraveling the strands, pulling the lengths apart until her hair was loose, with long black waves flowing over her shoulder. She flicked the band over her fingers and down to her wrist, then smiled up at him, a little more winsomely this time. She still looked amused.

"There's a new café that opened up a couple blocks from here," she told him, nodding up the street. She returned her gaze to him. "Have you been there yet? They're supposed to have a fantastic spiced noodle dish."

She was still smiling, but more gently now. She was making it easy for him. She _wanted_ him to ask her to join him. _She_ was actually interested in _him_.

With that understanding, his uncertainty faded and his nerves were joined instead by a sense of excitement. This was utterly unexpected, but he'd strategized for food. This he planned how to respond to. He breathed again and said, with practiced casualness, "No, I haven't. Would you like to try it?"

Suisen stepped forward, took his arm, her warm hand settling lightly just above his elbow.

"Yes, I believe I would," she said. Echo broke into a smile.

Together, they began to walk.

* * *

Hate to say it, but this series of fics aren't really romance…soooo…yeah, minimal wedding scene. Go read some of my other Rexoka fics if you want more mush and fluffy goodness. :P

Originally, this chapter was going to be a lot more complicated (Echo was going to go in for multiple attempts at talking to her), and I wanted to use it in _Said the Joker_, but I think it works better here, simplified, streamlined and at this point in the timeline. It also allowed me to tie up the Rex/Ahsoka subplot without going overboard, and poke more at some of the issues the clones would have outside of the military setting they're usually in. Which is always fun. I wanted any relationships to all be very distinct from each other, and Echo pulled the 'most ordinary setting' straw.

I had to give Suisen a name that meant 'narcissus'. I couldn't resist, with Echo's name being Echo! I tried looking for the Greek, but I couldn't find a Romanization of it, and ended up settling for the Japanese: Suisen meaning 'narcissus' or 'jonquil'. And 'Narcissa' just makes me think 'Malfoy' so that wouldn't work. So Suisen it became. She is, of course, an OC.

Also, many thanks to all the reviewers! Jadedsnowtiger, Cat Crusader, SoClose, TheRedFredDeadDude, rockforthecross, TamachanKICK, littlelionluvr, Maite, Elven-Spear, reulte and almostinsane! You're all amazing, and I'm so pleased to see people enjoying the story!

Hope you enjoyed.

~Queen


	5. Dreams of Her Childhood

_What Any of it is Worth_

_

* * *

_

Chapter 5. Dreams of Her Childhood

* * *

The town had not fared well in the attacks.

Now was a time of rebuilding, and he walked through the reconstruction quietly, attempting to look unobtrusive. The situation was dealt with. He would be returning to Coruscant soon, to make his report to the Jedi Council. The Togruta were a hardy people, and would recover given some time. Relief aid was already pouring in, the central government in Corvala taking necessary action. Ships were flying in medicine, food, water and temporary shelters for those who were displaced.

The sounds of hammering and shouting people filled the air. Togruta adults were hurrying everywhere, often hauling supplies. This area had been hit, but not too badly; some houses were flattened, but many were still repairable, and those who lived in the area were gathering together to repair and raise roofs. A few older children were running about as well, carrying messages and tools.

There was a little one, though, too small to be of help, crouching in a corner. She caught his eye for a moment, causing him to chuckle despite all the damage surrounding them. She was on all fours, glaring at a brightly colored ball an arm's length in front of her, giving every appearance of a baby nexu trying to learn how to pounce. As expected, a moment later, the little girl leapt forward with a growl and a bared set of sharp little baby teeth, which she tried to sink into the ball. Unfortunately, while pouncing on it, it shot out of her hands, and slammed into the outer wall of a nearby house. Being a ball, it struck the wall and bounced back, straight towards the girl's head and well poised to knock her flat. He started, a hand out, but before he could say a warning or affect the course of the ball, it stopped entirely of its own accord.

The little girl was glaring at the ball again. It floated serenely in the air before her.

Plo Koon paused, and watched.

* * *

There was celebration in the distance.

She was not a part of it. Here there was only the quiet of an Alderaanian evening, the sound of flowing water spraying up from a fountain nearby, pattering lightly back down into the pool at the fountain's base. The spray was cool, as the evening was cool. The flowers on the hedges were blue and purple shades, fully open a few minutes ago, but now beginning to show signs of closing for the night, their star shaped blossoms narrowing and puckering back together. Low lights were beginning to flicker on, dramatic lights that would illuminate the paths winding through the royal gardens for any who decided to take an evening walk. They were not quite needed yet, with the sinking sun still providing enough scarlet light in the sky.

It was the one time of year she came to the palace. The one time of year she had to meet with him. The rest of the time, the information flow was limited to narrower channels, all reports and intelligence flowing through encrypted, secret channels. Funds and information requests flowed back. But once a year, it was deemed necessary for Ahsoka to emerge from her cover and to quietly meet with Senator Bail Organa.

Today provided a good cover, with so many coming in and out of the palace. One more guest with an invitation. A young Togruta woman who was very good at floating unobtrusively on the edge of the party. She meant it to be that way; she was, somehow, hard to remember, and anyone who tried to focus on her found their attention slipping away towards something more interesting within a few moments. With the recent death of the Alderaanian queen a few months earlier, the life day of the prince was an opportunity to move the court forward, to move Alderaan forward, to begin emerging from the pall of mourning that had been cast over the palace since Breha's death. There were courtiers and politicians, entertainers and music and dancing. Food and sweets, and the promise of fireworks after dark.

Ahsoka could still feel the sorrow behind the levity. The fun was forced. An attempt to move forward, but one still weighted by recent death. It seemed everyone still expected Breha to appear, take her husband's arm, join the festivities with a smile. Then the reason for her absence was remembered, and it dampened what would otherwise be a joyful occasion.

She stretched out a hand, and let the water from the fountain fall onto her fingertips. The water was not quite icy, but it brought a prickling of gooseflesh to her arm. She retracted her fingers, flicked them outward, sending droplets scattering onto the paved stone path that surrounded the fountain. Ahsoka sighed. She felt overdressed and under-armed. She absently patted the space under her left arm that was usually filled with her lightsaber shoulder holster, and wished for her now ever present brown coat, that hid so well her forbidden Jedi weapon. Instead she was gussied up in makeup and a mahogany hued gown with sparkling crystal beads. It felt unnatural. Another disguise. She resisted the urge to wipe at the white face paint altering her facial markings. The sooner this was over with, the better. She could go home, wash her face, put on her usual clothes and feel like herself again.

Wandering over to one of the stone benches near the fountain, she sat down. She was supposed to meet Senator Organa here just after dark, which would not be too long from now. With him expected at certain events, they would not have long to talk, but it would be difficult for anyone to suspect him of conspiring with Alderaanian resistance at his own birthday party. Not with dozens of alibis hanging about.

One of the hedges began to rustle, and she looked up. It was still a bit early, and she frowned. The rustle was moving rapidly along one of the rows of bushes and there was a growing sound of small feet pounding against the cobblestone path. Ahsoka straightened, tensing, waiting. It had to be one of the guests, playing at something.

A girl in yellow burst out of the hedge maze, froze in the entrance to the fountain's circle, panting to catch her breath. She looked back over her shoulder, bolted forward three steps, saw Ahsoka, and froze again. Her brown eyes widened, she looked back towards the entrance to the maze, then looked around. She turned on Ahsoka. "Don't tell her I'm here!" she whispered vehemently, running for the bench Ahsoka was sitting on, then ducking behind it, crouching down and making herself small.

Ahsoka's brows drew together, and she leaned backward to look at the girl again. Her yellow dress was well made, pretty. Chocolate colored hair had been braided and piled onto her head, but it was beginning to unravel, signs of activity on the girl's part. She looked up and frowned at Ahsoka, held a finger up to her lips, and hissed, "Shh!" before ducking back down again, squeezing her eyes shut as though that would help her to disappear. There was a faint push in the Force, fluttering lightly somewhere in the distance, unfocused, unaware, clumsy, unconscious. An attempt to hide, to be unseen. It said, simply, _don't look at me!_ A poor, childish attempt at what Ahsoka had been practicing much of the evening, to remain unnoticed.

She found herself smiling down at the arch of the girl's spine just as she began to pick up the sound of another set of light footsteps pounding on pavement. Ahsoka turned around, composed herself, leaning backward against the bench and folding her hands in her lap, turning her attention to the jet of water reaching up into the air in front of her, just as another little girl burst out of the hedge maze, froze in a similar manner, looking around the area. This girl, though, had narrow, searching eyes, and her hands on her hips. "I'm going to find you!" she announced forcefully to the garden around the fountain.

The new girl took notice of Ahsoka, walked slowly towards her while scanning the area. Ahsoka sat up straighter, put on a politely curious smile. The second girl looked to be slightly older than the first, as well dressed, but in pale blue and with snow colored hair. An unusual shade, for one so young. She walked gracefully, shoulders back, head tilted up. If Ahsoka did not know better, she would have suspected the girl of being the Alderaanian Princess, who was currently busy squishing herself into a tiny ball in the dirt just behind the bench and sending out rather comical pleas into the Force to be invisible. She tried not to laugh.

The white-haired girl said, politely, "Excuse me, ma'am. Have you seen anyone come this way?"

Ahsoka looked skyward, smiled, then returned her attention to the girl in front of her. She tilted her head slightly, her lekku twitching in amusement. She lifted a finger and pointed towards the second half of the maze. "There was a little girl in a yellow dress that went running off that way, just a minute ago. If you hurry, you can catch her."

The white-haired girl's face split into a wicked grin for a moment, then composed itself into something more proper. She inclined her head gracefully and said, "Thank you, ma'am." Then she turned, walked with deliberate slowness towards the entrance of the second half of the maze. Then, just as she stepped under the gate, broke into a run, white hair flying out behind her.

Ahsoka pressed a hand to her mouth to keep the girl from hearing her laughter. She felt a little bad, being so deliberately misleading, but this was the first chance in nearly five years that she'd been able to see the daughter of Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala. The thought of Leia's parents sobered her, and she wore a more solemn face when she leaned over the back of the bench and poked Leia in the back, causing her to spring upward. "Your friend is gone," she informed her. Leia turned away, crawled forward slightly, and peered around the bench. When she confirmed they were alone in the little courtyard, she clambered to her feet.

"Thanks!" she said cheerfully, then bit her lip as she looked back toward the festivities.

"You're Leia," Ahsoka said, watching the girl carefully. Judging only from the last few moments, she had her father's sense of fun, but certainly her mother's appearance. The chocolate colored hair, the dark, quick eyes, the right tilt of the head. Adolescence, Ahsoka guessed, would only enhance the effect. She hoped it would not be too much; anything that could show a connection between the former Senator of Naboo and Leia Organa was dangerous.

Leia was looking at her curiously. "Yes. Are you one of father's friends?"

Ahsoka looked towards the maze and the space above it. The scarlet sky was deepening into crimson, the artificial horizon created by the buildings of the palace backlit by an almost violent flame orange. Ahsoka frowned a little, clasped her hands in her lap and looked at Leia again, who was studying her in turn. How much could a five year old with no training at all sense? Probably not much. She resisted an urge to pick Leia up and cradle her the way she had, once, long ago, when she was a newborn and the galaxy had just fallen to pieces. "Yes," she told her quietly. "Yes, I'm a friend of your father's."

Some of the stray hairs from Leia's loose bun fluttered in the wind when she cocked her head to the side, regarding the Togruta woman in front of her. Ahsoka returned the gaze as calmly as she could, feeling unsettled inside. Leia seemed to come to some sort of decision, and plopped herself down on the bench beside Ahsoka. "You know I'm Leia," she announced. "But I don't remember seeing you during all the introductions earlier. What's your name?"

Ahsoka smiled a little. Apparently she was interesting enough to catch the Princess's attention. She had avoided any introductions earlier in the day, not wanting to draw any more attention to herself than was necessary. Leia realized her absence. Clever girl. She wanted to tell her the truth. _My name is Ahsoka Tano. From a certain point of view, I'm your aunt. I'm a Jedi Knight, and if the galaxy were the way it should be, you would be learning to be one too. You have a brother and a kind of uncle in a man named Obi-Wan Kenobi. You are precious to us. You are protected_. Instead, she said, "I'm Ashla Ebino." She waved a hand carelessly and rolled her eyes as though bored. "I've got a small shipping business that does delicate imports and exports. It's _very_ exciting," she drolled, voice dripping with deliberate sarcasm. Then she grinned and winked. Leia seemed to appreciate it and giggled, legs swinging under the bench. "You're not with your father at his party?"

Leia pouted a little, skinny legs still swinging under the bench. She put her hands on the edge of the seat and leaned forward. "No. It's boring. Everybody still says sorry about mother, but most of them don't really care." She glared at the ground and her legs ceased to swing.

Of course she meant Breha, but Ahsoka could too easily envision Padme Amidala, the way she had looked at her funeral, laid out on her bier with flowers in her dark hair. She looked almost drowned, and yet managed to maintain an aura of peace in her death. Leia would never know her true mother. She sat still and stared at the ground, a flickering of _irritation_ registering in her signature, a vague scratchy barrier around her like a prickly plant. Two mothers, lost. Ahsoka struggled through her memory, trying to find an image of Padme that was appropriate. She did not know the woman. Not really, it seemed, though she'd come to think of her as a friend. Master Skywalker had be cautious, keeping up appearances as much as possible. He never spoke of Padme as anything other than the Senator of Naboo with Ahsoka. In retrospect, she considered that Master Kenobi suspected something, but never had enough proof to prove anything. Even if he did, Ahsoka doubted it would have been taken to the Council. Master Kenobi would have tried to confront Master Skywalker on his own first. And that was likely to end badly as well.

Padme Naberrie, former Queen of Naboo. Former Senator of Naboo. Quiet, strong, loyal, dedicated to her cause. She fought a different front of the Clone Wars, one not of blasters and lightsabers and droids but of secret alliances and votes and ideals. Of dejarik-like moves behind closed doors. There was a time, there towards the end, when Ahsoka had visited the Senate building. Senator Amidala was standing near a landing platform when she'd arrived, standing still and straight in the place where the shade of indoors met the sunlight of outside. She had tired eyes, sad. But there was a determined smile of greeting on her face as she stepped forward to meet Ahsoka and the group she travelled with. Her hands were raised slightly, extending, reaching outward, then were abruptly pulled back as though she realized embracing members of their group would not be proper.

Master Skywalker was standing just in front of Ahsoka that day.

She looked at the little girl sitting petulantly on the bench beside her, feet just beginning to swing again, twitching back and forth over the tips of the grass in small motions. The _irritation_ had faded into awareness of an _absence_. The empty feeling of _not-there_.

When Ahsoka woke from her injury the day of Order 66, she too knew of that _absence_. Of people gone who should not be gone. Of a life that had been stolen from her, making her an exile when she should instead be a hero. But Ahsoka had memories to fill the _absence_ with, thoughts and images and feelings grown from years of apprenticeship, training, friendship, respect. Ahsoka knew who she was, knew where she came from. Leia had no past. Bail Organa gave her a home, but she was more than a Princess and had no knowledge of her origins. No knowledge of what she truly was.

She took that image of Padme Amidala in her mind, took it and wound up every feeling she could associate with the Senator and former Queen and wrapped them tightly around that scene of Padme, half in the light, half in the shadow. Feelings of _respect_ and _sympathy_, of _understanding_ and of _kindness_. Of _protectiveness_, _righteousness, strength_. Of _sadness_, of _loss_. And then Ahsoka _leaned_, pressed that one memory of a bright day on a landing platform outward, pushed it through the Force at Leia, who suddenly sat upright and looked at Ahsoka strangely as that thought pushed its way into her mind.

She did not know what was happening. She could not. She would never have had the training to sort out feelings being aimed at her through the Force, would not have begun the development of that dimension of her perceptive capabilities. All Leia knew was there was a _disturbance_ in the calm around her, and the strange woman on the bench beside her was somehow the source. She edged away a little, suddenly awkward.

Ahsoka tried to give her a smile of _reassurance_. Leia paused, eased, frowned thoughtfully. "You're strange," Leia decided aloud, still giving Ahsoka a skeptical look.

In reply, Ahsoka said, with _honesty_, "I'm sorry about your mother."

Leia's skeptical look became wary. There was a faintly clumsy prodding in the Force, something that batted at Ahsoka in an unconscious manner, soft as butterfly wings fluttering. Ahsoka let it in, felt it flutter gently against her mind. Then Leia relaxed again. "You mean that."

"Yes, I do."

Leia hung her head, and her legs swung back and forth, twice. She nodded once. "Thank you."

They sat quietly together, until it was full dark and the fireworks display shot into the black sky, bursting out in colors of gold and silver.

Senator Organa found them like that, sitting on the bench before the fountain, heads tilted back and eyes gazing heavenward.

* * *

The little girl was glaring at the ball again. It floated serenely in the air before her.

Plo Koon paused, and watched.

After another round of glaring and growling at the ball, it dropped unceremoniously to the dirt again and rolled a few inches. The little girl, still on all fours, crawled backward a few steps, then cantered a little to the side, as though to get a better angle of attack. Plo shifted himself a little to the side as well, and continued to observe. This time, with this new angle, if the ball shot away from her again, it would roll out into the street and not try to bounce back to strike her. He folded his arms, tucking them into the sleeves of his robe. She was a tiny thing, but aware. Togruta were predators, or had been before they'd become sentient a millennia ago. The girl was acting out a very old dance.

She paused, rolled forward onto her fingers and toes, then launched herself forward again, this time landing squarely on top of the ball and wrapping her arms and legs around it firmly before it could escape. She crowed once with her success, then bit it in triumph. Then she hopped back off, and observed the ball again. She smiled, then skittered around it a little more. When it did not react, she frowned, pouted, then looked at it thoughtfully. She sat down and folded short legs under her.

She patted the ground, twice. Nothing happened. She frowned some more, then her lips puckered and her eyes narrowed, and she smacked the ground more authoritatively. This time, the ball flew straight towards her, and she caught it, hugging it for a moment before bouncing it a little on the dirt before her.

Then she noticed the man watching her, and that he was not Togruta, as most of the other people around were. She watched him for a moment, wide eyed, then raised a chubby hand and waved.

Plo stepped forward. She was small, but he guessed her age to be about two or three standard years. He knelt down in front of her. She was dusty from playing in the street, but her clothes were relatively clean and well made, and showed no signs of being worn for several days. She appeared well-fed, so she had someone caring for her in the aftermath of the attacks. She gave him a shy, somewhat skeptical look, the look of a child seeing a stranger and was yet to determine if they were trustworthy or not.

He tried to radiate both _kindness_ and _honesty_. "Hello, little one. That is quite a trick you just displayed."

She tilted her head to the side, regarding him. Then she grinned and hugged the ball closer, resting her chin on top of it. She was thoughtful for a moment, then pulled back, released the ball, and let it float between her palms for several seconds, showing off the skill. Then she smiled again, conspiratorially, as though she had just shared a great secret, and hugged the ball back to her chest.

Telekinesis. There was no denying it, and the girl clearly had a fair amount of control already. She offered him the ball.

He lifted a hand, and, without touching it, levitated it closer to him. He turned his hand, fingers rotating behind the ball without contact. Gently, he guided it back to her. She caught it easily, and after a moment of shock at his ability to float the ball as well, beamed at him excitedly. She made some toddler babble, and he understood something she said to be, "…and you can play too…" Then she pushed it back towards him and clapped her hands with delight as he eased it right back to her. She squealed again and tossed it at him.

He caught it, then set it on the ground. She clapped her hands at him, demanding more. "Play!" she insisted.

"Where are your parents, little one?" he asked her. She pouted at him for a moment, being denied, but turned a little and pointed at one of the nearby houses.

"Mama," she said firmly. Then she looked thoughtful, and there was a faint swirl of _searching_ that fluttered gently through the Force. She turned herself in a different direction and pointed towards one of the groups of Togruta men swarming over one of the houses being repaired. "Papa."

He patted her once on the head, then extended a hand. She looked at it curiously. The orangey-brown color was not too different from her own sunset shade, but instead of five delicate fingers, there were four heavier, thicker ones. She leaned forward, put her hands flat on the ground, and tottered to her feet. Carefully, she reached out, touched one of the fingers, curling hers around one of his. She shook it a little in greeting, then giggled up at him.

"Yes, it's nice to meet you, too," Plo told her, amused. "You have quite a talent. I think that I should speak with your parents. Can you take me to your mother?"

The girl did not release his finger, but began to walk forward, tugging on it with one hand and pointing with the other. He stood, and she turned back for a moment to look up at him.

He returned her smile.

* * *

Plo Koon found Ahsoka on Shili when she was three, during a mission. I can't find anywhere that states what kind of mission, so I've deliberately left it somewhat vague. And toddler!Ahsoka just seemed entirely too adorable to write.

Since I decided to write a sequel to _Said the Joker_, I really wanted to have a slightly older Leia make an appearance with Ahsoka. In order to keep things relatively canon-compliant, Leia can't really know Ahsoka very well, but it was too much fun getting them to interact. The white haired girl is Winter Celchu, but other than reading about her on the Wookieepedia, I don't know her well enough to include her more. Ashla was the name of another Togruta female Jedi youngling. I chose Ebino because it's a town nearby Tano, in Miyazaki, Japan. And it sounded good together, lol.

As always, a great big thank you to everyone who has reviewed! *hugs!* Seeing your kind words always makes my day: **reulte, TheRedFredDeadDude (can I just call you Red?), littlelionluvr, rabbitxwriter, rockforthecross, Pic16, Elven-Spear, DoubleEO, almostinsane, TamachanKICK, KatiaSwift and shakespeareaddict!** You rock!

~Queen


	6. At the Red Pond Cafe

_What Any of it is Worth_

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Chapter 6. At the Red Pond Café

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He placed his hand on the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

The café had seen better days. It was larger than he expected, able to accommodate nearly a hundred people, making it more restaurant than café, but the quaint décor of exposed durasteel beams and faded pictures of smiling workers lining the walls gave it a local, if somewhat shabby, friendliness. The bell attached to the top of the door jangled as it glided shut, adding the chiming sound to the clatter of plates and scrape of silverware against them. Save for those sounds, the place was quiet, though it was dinnertime and should have been bustling with activity. These were not good days for Ghorman. Fives shuffled in the entranceway, staring at the sign that read: '_Please Wait to be Seated_.' He hesitated a little, looking out over the tables, pulled his battered cap off his head to expose wild tufts of hat hair. A scarlet skinned Zeltron woman was writing down an order in the far corner. Only a handful of seats were occupied, by big shouldered men and women nursing big plates of food and steaming cups of caf.

Thick as sludge. That's how most of the workers liked it.

A strawberry haired figure whisked out of the kitchen in a swirl of fried food smells, a pot of hot caf in her hand. She made a line straight for one of the tables in the center of the floor, smiling politely, if tiredly, and trying to conjure some pleasant chatter with the customer, as black caf spilled steadily into his cup.

He wrung his hat in his hands, leaned forward on his toes to look at her. It had been two years since the Ghorman Massacre. There was Imperial occupation across the planet. The people here were not soldiers, and their grumbling and complaints had yet to form true resistance. They were peaceable, and with their attempts at non-violent opposition so violently crushed, beginning with the Massacre and continuing for months afterward, they were out of options and out of hope. The big shoulders of the customers were slumped. They ate their food sullenly, silent.

It was not a large occupying force, not anymore. The Empire considered the will of the Ghormanese to be broken, tamed. The remaining garrison was as much for show as it was to keep the people cowed and submissive. Because of this, she would probably take one look at him and scream. She knew what he was. She had to. That day when the ship descended, he stood beside his brothers, and there was a look of horror on her face. She would probably scream, for what his brothers were forced to do to her people. It left a sick pit of nerves in his stomach. If she did scream, he'd run, get off planet as fast as possible. He hoped for a better outcome, but was braced for the worst.

He wanted to see her. He hovered next to the _Please Wait to be Seated_ sign, fidgeting, trying not to break into a sweat. She was the only girl who'd ever smiled so kindly at him. She'd flirted with him. She'd even held his hand, for awhile. It felt good, made him happy. If she screamed, at least it would finally kill a deep rooted seed of hope. He could try to forget.

The caf was poured. She looked up, smiled, and said, "Welcome!"

Then she _saw_ him.

Strawberry hair, a cloud of it, bundled back at the nape of her neck and long enough to toss over her shoulder. Freckles. Green eyes, widening.

Behri Mokusei fumbled the caf pot.

Then she swore as hot liquid splashed down her apron onto the floor. She made an undignified yelp as it soaked the apron and stained her clothes, her fingers nearly scalding as she tried to grasp the heated glass before it dropped and shattered on the floor. The man at the table quickly slid his chair out of the way, and the Zeltron waitress came flying across the restaurant, whipping off her apron and shoving it at Behri in a vague attempt at mopping up the mess all over her clothes. "Are you _okay_?" she demanded, then turned and focused a fiercely violet glare on Fives, lips curling up into a snarl. He blanched and took a step backward. A pissed off Zeltron spitting out vibes of righteous fury was not what he wanted to deal with right now.

Everyone in the café was staring at him, with various shades of shock, curiosity, annoyance or amusement.

"Sia, it's okay," Behri said distantly, meeting Fives' helpless stare with a strange combination of recovering surprise and gentleness. She clutched the Zeltron's apron in a fist, much the way Fives was twisting his hat in his. Her other hand clutched the handle of the caf pot in a death grip. The Zeltron woman straightened, looked between them, a brow furrowing, then lifting.

Behri ignored her, and used the caf pot to gesture at one of the booths against the wall. She inclined her head in that direction, gave him a faltering, nervous smile.

It took Fives a moment to remember to breathe. She was extending an invitation. He would accept it. He moved quickly to the booth, lowered himself into the seat, slid into place. He gripped the edge of the table tightly for a moment, then tucked his hands under and gripped his knees. He tried not to stare, and in an effort to look busy, he picked up one of the menus in a little holder between condiments and tried to read it.

There was a shuffling, and he looked up, trying to look casual about it and feeling incredibly self conscious. Behri was ushering the Zeltron out of the way, pushing her towards the back of the restaurant where there appeared to be a counter for caf refills, clean plates and the register. Fives ducked his head again, busied himself with the menu, and tried to ignore the curious glances of the customers and the sudden, frantic whispering between Behri and Sia in their corner. He kept his head down. Troopers didn't often go out in public without their helmets, and he no longer had any of the trim, proper appearance of a good soldier. His hair was shaggy, messy. He had a shadow of a beard from a day of not shaving. His clothes were baggy, loose, well worn. Behri had mistaken him for a spacer, then a smuggler, when they first met. He hoped he still looked enough the part that no one would think to compare his face with those of his brothers.

"You didn't tell me _that_!" Sia gasped loudly, and Fives's head shot up in time to watch her whirl towards him, hands flying upward to clasp each other, and a dreamy look fill her eyes. She squealed, "That is _so romantic_!"

Fives switched back to the menu and contemplated if it would be too weird to put his head on the table and the menu on top of his head to hide. If there was one thing more annoying than a pissed off Zeltron, it was one rhapsodizing about romance. He heard a couple of chuckles from other customers, who seemed to be of the opinion this was humorous. The man who'd almost gotten drenched in caf grinned, winked, and saluted him with his fork. Fives slunk a bit lower in his seat, willing invisibility.

There was more shuffling, and he dared a glance up to see Behri shoving Sia through the entrance of the kitchen. He got a glimpse of her face- she was bright red.

Two years, and she had not forgotten him. It made him nervous, happy, and a little terrified at the thought. He supposed she was unlikely to really forget him, though. The Ghorman Massacre was not an event one forgot easily. He had only one expectation from the encounter, and that was to see her again, whatever happened. In his travels during the last year, he'd had opportunities to meet or spend time with other women. He'd even practiced his flirting a bit, and felt more confident with the concept now. Women found him attractive. Not all of them, but some of them, and it was pleasing.

But every time one of them sat beside him or stood across from him, he found himself comparing. Some of the women were prettier, in that conventional sort of way, or more exotic. Others more clever or more adept at flirting. None of them, though, was a red-haired waitress from Ghorman who'd held his hand for an afternoon. On moments of wild dreaming, he tried to imagine traveling with Behri. He wouldn't be so alone. Someone to back him up, to hold on to. It was a pleasant dream, for the little while before reality set in, and he reminded himself she was far more likely to scream in terror. Brothers had to carry out violence against her people. How well could she separate him from those still under Imperial sway?

The sound of feet on the floor caused him to lift his head. Behri was approaching, a fresh pot of caf in hand and an unreadable expression on her face. She reached out to the table, turned over the cup that was sitting in a saucer, and began to pour. The aroma was rich, thick, and it came not only from the pot but from Behri as well. She'd exchanged her apron for a clean one, but the smell of caf emanated from her, from her clothing. He'd startled her. "Sorry," he said, trying not to sound too awkward.

She met his eyes for a moment, then looked down again. She pulled the caf away from the cup. "We close in two hours. I don't get off work until then."

"I can wait."

She looked at him again, a long, hard look, and he held still under her scrutiny. He did not know what she saw, and her expression did not change, but there was a softening somewhere in the green of her eyes. She straightened a little. "Can I bring you anything? To eat?" She pointed her chin towards the menu still in his hands. He turned it over a couple times, trying to skim the items and see if he could find anything good. "The nerf steak is good. And the topato wedges."

He swallowed. "That'll be fine."

She nodded once, turned, and left him to wait.

People came and went. Sia kept trying to get a better look at him, and it made him nervous. Behri brought his food out and served him silently, clearing the plates away once they were emptied with equal quiet. The café had a rhythm to it, of clattering plates and clinking silverware, punctuated occasionally with the sounds of meat hitting a grill and sizzling in the back. A cloud of steam would sometimes billow out the swinging kitchen door, usually a moment after the sizzling began. The bells above the door were quaint, ringing out welcome and farewell as people passed through the doors. The place smelled of caf and cooking food and the delicious sort of greasiness that came from the kind they made.

He found himself relaxing, in spite of himself. He was full, and some of the adrenaline it took to walk in that door was receding, leaving him crashing. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back against the back of the booth.

Fives realized it was closing time when Sia emerged from the back room, flounced across the floor, waved cheerily at him, and turned off a buzzing neon sign facing the street that declared them open, then a holoscreen set on mute, reporting the news. She started towards him a little bit, but Behri emerged from the back with an older human man who reeked of cooked food. The man gave him a curious glance, raised his brows, shrugged a bit, then said good night to the girls. The bells rang out behind him. Sia was doing a strange, nosy sort of shuffle, edging as slowly as possible towards the door. Behri sighed and began pushing her forward, waving her hands and giving her small shoves when she stalled. When they finally got to the door, Sia turned and whispered, rather loudly, "Are you going to need the apartment tonight?"

Behri turned red again, and Fives followed suit. He paid attention to the top of the table.

"What? No! _Sia_!" Behri hissed back, scandalized, and then there was more shuffling, and the bells ringing, and then the sound of a locking door. Then a frustrated sigh. Fives waited, glad of the time to let his face turn back to a normal color. Behri was probably doing the same.

Then she was lowering herself into the seat across from him, hands tucked together into her lap. She looked uncomfortable.

Fives suspected he looked the same. "How are you?" he tried.

She nodded a couple times. "Alright."

They sat for several moments.

"You?" she asked.

"Alright. Too." He winced. He sounded like an idiot. She must be thinking he was insane, coming here like this, out of the blue, with no real purpose. "I've been traveling."

"Of course," she fidgeted, then took a deep breath, and looked up to face him. She wore an expression of determination in the face of anxiety. "What are you doing here, Fives? You're…" she shifted, frowning, grasping for the right words. She looked around, as though they might be seen. "You're one of _them_."

He tried not to flinch. "I deserted about a year before," he paused, searching for a nicer way to put _The Ghorman Massacre_. "I deserted about a year before I met you. I'm a clone, but I'm not an Imperial. Neither are my brothers." This time, he did flinch. "The ones you saw, anyway." He placed his hands on top of the table, pressed them flat, fingers extended.

Her brows drew together in puzzlement for a moment, then eased. "Brothers," she repeated softly, but it was not a questioning tone that required explanation. Simply an acknowledgement of his statement. She was looking towards the door again. "Why are you here?" she repeated, this time simply looking perplexed.

Behri brought out too many conflicting thoughts and wants, too many possible answers. So he said it as simply as he could, not knowing another way. "I wanted to see you."

She stared at him blankly. "See me? What? Why?"

He made fists, then forced his hands flat again. He had only half-held hopes and dreams about her. Behri was half fantasy. A pretty girl who flirted with him and held his hand. Almost every brother in the army would take a blaster shot to have an opportunity like that, much less actually have a woman who truly loved him. He grimaced as the idea crystallized in his mind, the desire to see her growing clearer. He wanted Behri to love him, and he could not tell her such a thing. It would be embarrassing at best, weird and alarming at worst. So he hesitated, fingers flexing against the durasteel top of the table, struggling for an appropriate response.

Behri made a small noise. Maybe it was a sigh, maybe it was from the faint rustle her clothing made when she moved her hands up from her lap towards the table. Her hands hovered, halfway to his, edging forward, then drawing back again and again, until she finally set them on the durasteel surface as well, and their hands faced each other, not touching. They were nice hands, he thought. Long, with close cropped fingernails. Strong hands.

"Why did you leave?"

He looked up at her. She was still staring at their hands. He looked down at them again. It was comforting, with his brown, wide hands parallel to her pale, long ones. "My brother had some issues with an order," he told her, negating any details. "My other brother and I ended up following him around. Eventually decided I didn't really care for Imperial rule either. There's lots of us that don't. But there's not much choice in the matter, for clones. We're designed for obedience, and there's no leaving the army except by death. Usually, anyway."

She sat still, unmoving. He risked a glance at her. She was frowning, mulling it over. Then her face darkened into a scowl. He braced himself, but nothing happened save for her tension. After several moments, she relaxed, though her look was still dark. "That is not right," she finally said.

"No, it's not."

Her hands became fists. "Thank you. For getting me out, before."

She would not meet his gaze, but the words were a kindness he only half hoped for. Now an almost giddy, hopeful nervousness was starting to replace the fear of terrifying her. Their hands were so close, on the table. A few inches apart. He could reach out, take them in his. Feel the slender strength of them again. A few inches apart. It could have been miles.

"You're welcome."

She gave him a hesitant smile. It flickered a little, like an old light coming on, then grew brighter. "What have you been doing? For two years?"

Conversational. He almost leaned back against the booth and sighed in relief at the thought of some of the tension easing. He couldn't tell her, not really, not exactly. He couldn't tell her about smuggling Force-sensitives, about smuggling brothers, about decelerating, about Alderaan, about laying foundations for things to come, building little networks and monitoring little pockets of resistance. He wanted to tell her all these things, but could tell her none of these things, so he said, "Keeping the galaxy from getting too dark," and let her interpret it how she would.

Her fingers twitched a little, then edged forward slightly, until the tips of hers were just barely brushing the tips of his. He pushed his forward a little as well. Behri seemed to be concentrating on their hands very hard. "I'm glad," she told him, finally. She frowned a bit. "You won't be able to stay long."

Fives wanted to grab her hands and squeeze them. Her words were a little confusing, with a little bit of a question, a little bit of a statement, and maybe a little of disappointment as well. He couldn't. Ghorman was dangerous. He was taking a big risk coming here, and she seemed to understand this. "No. I'm leaving later tonight." He took a breath. He didn't need to stutter or sound like an idiot. This wasn't flirting - it was too serious for such a term - but he wanted something simple, though it was not easy to ask. So he took a breath and said, "Can I contact you?"

Behri didn't speak, but after a moment, she nodded rapidly, several small bobs of her head that stopped almost as swiftly as they began. "Yes."

He reached out, slipped his hands under hers, and held them.

She waited a moment, then tentatively held them back.

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They talked.

The messages were halting at first, stilted. He was afraid of telling her where he was, of what he was doing, in case the messages would be intercepted. He used another name. The letters became more frequent as time went on, with easier tellings and stories shared. Fives told her about food, about strange cultures and the quirks of the inhabitants of different planets he found himself wandering through. Strange little stories of his days hopping between planets. He did not tell her the name of the planet, but he spoke of home, of brothers that were free, of younglings running around.

She wrote back about people who came into the café. Of Sia's constant questioning, of funny stories about her family and friends. She told him about holovids she enjoyed, and novels she read, and how she'd bake sweets in the evenings and listen to music and talk to Sia.

Their lives were very different. Fives read her messages, listened to her recorded voice. That was what it was like to be an ordinary person, and have an ordinary life. He saw glimpses of it, when he went home to Alderaan, but ordinary life had never been a daily event for him. Even under Imperial occupation, her life had a rhythm to it, a peacefulness he usually only saw on Alderaan. She spoke of her life with warmth. He looked forward to her messages, read them as soon as they arrived, then again before sleep.

It was this way for some six months.

There were days when he could not write back to her, or send messages. Sometimes it was because he was in transit and needed to wait to drop out of hyperspace. Other times it was too dangerous. When he could not return her messages for more than a few days, he would find several increasingly worried voice recordings and notes filtering into his comm, questioning his safety. He was missed. Someone worried about him, someone who wasn't family. He didn't like worrying her, but he couldn't help but feel pleased at the thought of someone caring.

Behri, though, was always regular in her messaging. It was unlike her to miss more than a week, and yet, now she had missed two.

It took some time to find out why. Communications with the entire planet were shut down. It took another two weeks for Fives to find someone reliable enough to get real news.

Ghorman had tried to fight back.

The details were unclear. The spacer who gave him the information had been close enough to the system to pick up a few frantic signals from the planet's subspace transceivers before radio silence set in. There was a riot in the capitol. Beyond that, no one knew.

He worked his way towards Ghorman, hopping ships and freighters for several days, then hovering at Sern Prime for awhile before a single message came through.

"_I'm safe. Ports opening soon. Meet me_." Then a string of coordinates.

He left to find her.

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If Behri did not want anyone knowing she was being watched, she was doing a very poor job of disguising the fact.

Fives watched the main level of the promenade from the level above, curiously. Behri was pacing in small circles, occasionally turning to glare at a man who was standing off to one side, arms folded stubbornly over his chest, frowning at her. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. Behri looked like she was going to go over and smack him in the head. Instead, she restrained herself, stomped her foot once, and pointed firmly towards the archway leading back to the landing platforms. The man scowled at her, and she repeated the gesture. He rolled his eyes again, ran a hand through shaggy red hair, and made a gesture that clearly read, "_Fine, I give up_." He straightened, then stalked off, mingling into the crowd until Fives could no longer see him.

Behri fiddled with her ponytail for a moment, adjusted the knapsack on her back, then backed up against a pillar, head turning back and forth, searchingly.

Waiting for him.

He was cautious. Imperial ships were crawling through the Sern sector, and he could only assume it was due to the recent uprising at Ghorman. This station was the first one without a current Imperial presence, either a garrison or policing force. He'd arrived early, set up a watch in case of ambush, a practice that served him particularly well, as he operated alone. The only person who'd seemed even remotely interested in Behri was the odd man she'd just sent off. If Behri had been compromised, she was doing an extremely good job of broadcasting it to everyone around her. He smiled a little. He still needed to be cautious, but it looked like Behri was not being followed.

Fives turned and flowed into the crowd, submerging himself into the stream of passerby. He kept his pace steady, easy, at the rate of someone fresh off of work and on a stroll home. When he emerged right beside her, tapping her elbow to alert her, she started, gasped, and brought her hands up as though to ward off one of the more persistent vendors that wandered the promenade, selling trinkets from trays strapped around their necks. Then she recognized him, and was relieved.

"Come on," he told her, jerking his head towards one of the exits and starting off. She quickly picked up pace behind him, then caught up and matched stride, dodging people as easily as he did. He'd scouted out a quieter area on a lower deck earlier, and headed in that direction. They took a crowded turbolift in silence, Behri obviously curious at the bustle around her, trying vainly to keep her head down and posture casual, as though she were a local. She wasn't doing particularly well, but he remembered the early days of traveling with Ahsoka, Rex and Echo. He'd gawked just as badly at some of the new places he'd seen, been as amazed at some of the new experiences. Behri had never left Ghorman before. The galaxy must be looking like a very large place right now.

He ducked down a narrow hallway, one that did not look as though it was ever quite completed. Exposed pipes ran overhead beside silvery ventilation shafts, standing out starkly against dirty plastoid walls.

Behri had folded her arms around herself, almost protectively, and was looking around more obviously now that they were alone. There was a shuddering overhead as a fan switched on, pumping air through the ventilation system. "Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

He made a broad gesture, hands out, open, stretched out from his sides. "Here I am." It got a small smile from her, and she nodded again, looking somewhat calmer. "What happened?"

The calm faded and the smile turned into a scowl. "People tried to protest again." The scowl faded into something far more distressed. She squeezed her eyes shut, struggled for a moment, then continued, "It didn't go well."

"You weren't followed off planet?"

She shook her head. "Even with the occupation and bad economy, Ghorman's still one of the main durasteel producers in the galaxy. They can't keep us shut down permanently. The Emperor needs durasteel for his precious star destroyers." Her hands were fists, tight, and her voice was bitter and hard. "I got a ride with one of the cargo freighters." She smiled, but it had no humor in it.

"Was the man earlier from the cargo ship?"

She blinked at him for a moment, then laughed more genuinely. "Yes. That's one of my idiot brothers. Jorran doesn't exactly approve of this."

"Meeting me?"

She grinned a little, though it faded quickly. "Well, that too. Mainly leaving Ghorman. I didn't say anything about you until we were already here. Or he'd send me straight back home, tell Mom, and then I'd have to deal with her in full blown overprotective mode." She rolled her eyes, then looked at him again, gathering herself. Her back straightened, her head lifted, and she got a determined look. "I want to help you," she declared.

It took a moment for the words to sink in. "You want to help me?"

"You told me you're keeping the galaxy from getting too dark. I want to help you." She said it grimly, her hands still at her sides, balled into fists. Now, though, he realized she was shaking, and fighting to keep it from being too obvious. Her lips were drawn tight when they were closed, pressed into a thin line. She was blinking hard, her eyes a beginning to shine from wetness. She added, in a quieter, uncertain voice, "If you'll let me?"

A part of him wanted to rejoice, but it was quickly subdued by unexpected fear. His work was dangerous. Behri wasn't trained for anything. She was no soldier. She was not a Jedi like Ahsoka. She'd be helpless if something happened. It wouldn't be safe. He couldn't always be everywhere to protect her. She'd be in danger. She was a civilian. She was to be protected.

And she wasn't asking to _be_ with him. She was asking to _work_ with him. It stung a little.

He hesitated too long, and Behri took a deep breath and plunged onward. "I know I don't know how to use a blaster or anything, but," she raised her shaking fists, "I've got three older brothers who made sure I'm good in a fistfight, and I can learn more. I _can_." She was shaking visibly now, shoulders hunching together and the fear in her voice taking a different tone. Anger. Stubborn anger. Her words were vehement. "If you won't let me, I'll find some other way. Where there's lots of people, there's restaurants, and they always need waitresses or cooks or washers. I can find something until I figure out where else to go. I _will_."

Fives reached out and grabbed her shoulders when she paused for breath, shook her once, gently. Behri met his gaze, unflinching, now with visible tears. "Why?" he asked.

Her face crumpled, she looked away, hands coming up to wipe at her eyes, just beginning to spill over. She sniffled once, straightened again, took a deep breath and said, brokenly, "They took Sia."

Staring, he shook his head, not understanding. "What do you mean, they took her?"

Behri flinched a little, shook her head. "They took her. She was at the protest that closed down the planet. They took all the non-humans. Not just from the protest, they starting going into people's houses! Nobody knows where they are. There's all kinds of rumors! They landed on top of us, they treat us like we're nothing, and now they just started _taking_ people. It's been _weeks_," she said, covering her mouth with a hand. "Weeks." The hand became a fist again. Her voice steadied, then picked up speed. "I'm sick of it Fives. I can't just keep trying to pretend it's all going to go away. It's _not_, is it? I can't do it anymore. We're _people_, we have _rights_!" Her last word was almost a shout, and she was starting to work herself into rage. "They're treating us like animals!" He got a better grip on her shoulders, began pulling her deeper into the hallway. "They just _took_ her! Like she was a thing that could be stolen! And everyone not protesting just keeps trying to pretend it's going to get better! Go away on its own, like it's somebody else's problem! Somebody else's fault!"

"Behri, you have _got_ to settle down," he tried to argue, looking up and down the hallway.

She scowled at him, but quieted her voice as she realized he was concerned about being overhead. She was red faced, not from embarrassment, but from a building fury and the mottling of skin that came from tears. Then she said, with a quiet sense of defiance, "I want to fight, Fives."

She had planned this. There was no point in asking if she understood what she was asking. Such a question was pointless. She may not fully understand the depth of what would be required in such a fight, may not be able to perceive all the risks, but she knew full well she'd be placing her life on the line. It was why she was scared. It was why she shook, why she let herself get angry so quickly. It was better to be angry than to be afraid when facing an opponent, especially one as vast and superior as the Galactic Empire.

She was one woman, with one voice, who was losing people she cared about. And she wanted to fight for them.

Maybe, in the end, that was why he couldn't forget about her. It was the same now as it was the day of the massacre. The same righteous fury in the face of fear. Only now, she knew someone who could help her fight. Himself.

It wouldn't be easy. But if he told her no, she'd try anyway, without his support and with no protection. Even if she didn't want him the same way he wanted her, he could at least keep her safe and give her some training. Keep her alive. So he told her, "Okay."

She looked confused for a moment. "Okay?"

"Yes. Okay. You can come with me."

She struggled with tears again, covered her mouth with her hands, and looked away. Then she abruptly turned back and flung her arms around his neck, hard enough to choke him. He staggered backward, gasping for air. Her grasp loosened a little, and he breathed easier. She was smashed against him, her face buried in his shoulder, her hair hovering just under his nose. He tried to relax, closed his eyes. Two and a half years ago, he'd tried so awkwardly to comfort her. He found himself in a similar position now, and slowly raised his arms to hold her. She did not pull away, and they lingered in that position for some time. There was a sweetness about her, but it was buried beneath the smell of machine oil from a cargo freighter. The tips of her hair brushed over the back of his hands. He let out a long breath, and she pulled away slightly.

She raised a hand, placed it on one side of his face. "Thank you," she said, then kissed him.

He closed his eyes, tightened his grip, and realized she wanted to be with him after all.

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This chapter marks the halfway point in the fic. Most of what's transpired so far has been ideas I wanted to put into _Said the Joker_, but didn't make sense there, or took place farther along the timeline and were the reason I began writing _What Any of it is Worth, _such as this chapter. The second half of this fic is mostly intended for this fic, and is somewhat darker in tone than the first half. At least, darker for me, anyway, lol.

Behri is another OC. Her first appearance was in Chapter 8 of _Said the Joker to the Thief_.

As always, many thanks and much love to everyone who reviewed! **TamachanKICK, KatiaSwift, rockforthecross, BetaReject, Red, shakespeareaddict, DoubleEO, LongLivetheClones and littlelionluvr**! Your kind comments make all this writing worthwhile. Thank you!

Til next time,

~Queen


	7. Turn Left

**Warning**: There is a scene of strong violence in this chapter. I've tried not to be gory, but it's unpleasant and graphic. It is in the second section of the chapter, if you would rather avoid it – please **be warned**. Also, this is a flashback chapter.

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_What Any of it is Worth_

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Chapter 7. Turn Left

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_Rage_.

The glasses began to tremble, then shake. The tremor rippled throughout the tapcaf, setting the glass rack above the bar to tinkling wildly as the glasses clattered off each other. Mugs and cups set on tables, wineglasses with long stems and fluted tubes containing exotic mixed drinks overturned themselves, cracked, splintered, spurting contents over the men and women sitting beside them. Small shrieks and shouts of surprise came from customers, startled and suddenly liquid-splattered. Bottles, most clear, some green, some brown, some blue, shivered where they sat, then erupted behind the counter, sending glass shards and alcohol to the ground in a sharp edged, sticky sweet smelling waterfall. Someone screamed. The glasses on the rack exploded, sending shards of translucent material flying through the bar.

Then came the sound of feet, running, sliding on broken glass, of screams and shouts of confusion and horror, all rushing, running, mobbing the exit, seeking escape from the bizarre eruption of sharp glass within.

Alone amid the mess, a figure stood. It seethed, standing straight and tall, chin up, defiant, ice colored eyes locked onto a holoscreen. Arms at sides, fists clenched hard enough to draw blood from the palms from the pressure of nails. The figure shook, much like the glass shook until it shattered.

It was a woman, and she wore a dark cloak. As she trembled with fury, the hood began to slip backward, revealing a smooth, pale scalp, dark tattoos patterned across it. She paid it no attention, focused solely on the broadcast transmitting across the holoscreen.

"_We stand on the threshold of a new beginning. In order to ensure our security and continuing stability, the Republic will be reorganized into the first _Galactic Empire_, for a safe and secure society, which I assure you will last for ten thousand years. An Empire that will continue to be ruled by this august body and a sovereign ruler chosen for life. __An Empire ruled by the majority…."_

She knew this voice. The thin, gentlemanly sound twisted into a cruel tenor of hate. She knew the black cloak that obscured his face, always pulled far down, disguising, hiding. A face she had never seen. Now she saw it, white and twisted, yellow eyed, rimmed in red. Corrupt, fetid, maggot-colored flesh reflecting the rotted state of the man. The Master of her old Master. One who would reform the galaxy in his own image, by obliterating everything. Chancellor Palpatine. No. Self-styled _Emperor_ of the first Galactic Empire.

She had been _deceived_.

Many years ago, she was promised vengeance upon those who let one dear to her die. Dooku gave training, weapons, power. Provided her with a target, a clear purpose beyond simple rage, refined her abilities to their most lethal edge. She had murdered, assassinated, controlled, commanded. Compelled her followers and annihilated her opponents, believing in the truth of her vengeance. Her Master trained her, promised her more vengeance, trained her in the ways of the enemies of her enemies. Told her she could destroy them all, weed them from the galaxy by tearing them up from their roots.

_Lies_.

She had been deceived . She had been deceived and _used_.

"_We will defend our ideals by force of arms. We will give no ground to our enemies and will stand together against attacks…."_

Her old Master was dead. Her Master's Master stood now before the whole of the galaxy and revealed himself in his true form, applauding fools surrounding him and welcoming in the darkness, welcoming hatred and cruelty, ignorance and power. Deceived into believing in Sidious's truth. They would be discarded as she was discarded. The moment she was no longer _useful_, she was cast aside, a piece of nothing, deserving of no respect, no honor.

Her need for vengeance was fueled only to make her a tool of evil men.

"_Become the eyes of the Empire by reporting suspected insurrectionists. Travel to the corners of the galaxy to spread the principles of the New Order to barbarians. Build monuments and technical wonders that will speak of our glory for generations to come."_

Not so many years ago, one she was promised vengeance upon taught her a thing called _compassion_. Life did not have to be a cycle of death and revenge. She liked that pretty fantasy better than the reality. The Master of her former Master wished his principles taken to barbarians? To have monuments and technical wonders dedicated to his glory? Her fingers tightened upon the grip of the curved hilt of her lightsaber and she began to smile. It was not a kindly one.

She lifted a hand, slim white fingers splayed, then twisted it into a fierce grip. The holoscreen buckled, metal insides screeching off each other, flew from the wall. A single blade of scarlet hummed through the air in a precise arc, splitting it neatly in half and sending pieces sparking and crashing into walls, broken bits of metal and plastic scattering across the floor.

Her breathing was heavy, though her eyes were dry and her lips did not let out a scream. People were tools to him, nothing more. Weapons to turn against one another for his entertainment and profit. For his personal _glory_. His vision of _Empire_.

With this, the Master of her former Master declared a new war. Her lips curled into a snarl.

Who else would die, because of this? How many more would be enslaved, because of this man? How many more would be _used_ for his glory? Corrupt. _Arrogant_.

The greatest of his enemies were dead. She flinched once, closed her eyes at the wince. There was a time she would have rejoiced at the thought. She was not one of them, though with her lightsabers in hand, she would be as hunted as any who may have survived. She knew his methods too well. There would be no mercy. No distinguishing between one kind of Force-user and another. All were a threat to him, unless he had them neatly trained to heel.

There were no defenders left. It would have to be those the Emperor deemed _barbarians_ who fought back. Those who did not follow him, did not adore him. Those who saw him clearly. Those he stepped upon and _used_. Those who were like her. But they were weak. Accustomed to having others fight their battles for them. She cast a disdainful glance towards the sparking bits of holoscreen, scattered on the ground. They would be broken as easily, with no one to give guidance.

She helped him build his Empire. Laid the foundation for him.

She would shatter it at its base. The Jedi taught her compassion. The Sith taught her vengeance. She would show them how well she had learned.

The light of her lightsaber extinguished, leaving her to stand in shadow.

Asajj Ventress turned, left.

* * *

The city was not silent.

The long streets, laid out in a neat grid, stretched out in four directions. North, south, east, west. All directions were visible paths from the center of the intersection in which he stood. Each road was empty. There were no civilians here. No beings of many species, with bright faces and bright clothing. No loud talking men, no chattering women, no shouting children. No speeders buzzing past in their many shades. Traffic lights were dull, loose power wires sparking where they lay trailing on the ground. Buildings with facades of transparasteel stood tall, towering upward. They would reflect blue on bright days, shine clean and bright.

Today was not a bright day. Overcast, no light shone down through iron colored clouds to light the streets. Everything was the color of duracrete roads, dingy grey, muted. The buildings did not tower upward, but rather seemed to lean, to tilt and hover overhead, peer down at the little white clad figures moving below, skirting their foundations. They were not the usual people who moved past, rushing by about their day. They attended business of another sort. Those who usually traveled these streets in the city had fled. Those who did not run, hid. Those who hid – they were found.

The city was not silent.

On the sidewalks there lay rubble. Broken stone and mortar, shards of shattered transparasteel. They crunched underfoot as he moved forward, blaster poised. Communication between white clad figures was conducted over radio waves, heard only by those wearing other helmets. It was those being found that provided the soundtrack to the city. The sounds of running feet, not walking. Running feet pounding pavement. Their shouts cut short by a staccato accompaniment of blaster fire. A grenade exploded occasionally, providing deeper percussion, echoing down empty streets and shaking the transparasteel windows.

Cody could hear his own breathing, the moisture of his own breath warming the inside of the helmet uncomfortably. The datastream his HUD provided ran steadily, feeding him information, seeking out heat signatures. Standing in the center of the intersection, he paused, looking each way, arm up, calling a halt. The last barricade the civilians erected was being torn down. They had not lasted long. Not against bombers and well trained stormtrooper corps, striking in a fierce blitz of firepower. If there were Jedi here, they were long since gone, and any evidence of their presence with them. He suspected the rumor of hiding Jedi and a forming resistance on the planet were merely an excuse to invade. People too vocal in their criticism of the Empire did not survive long.

He moved again, gesturing forward. His men followed him, cautious, but heady with their victory. Secure the city. Find the insurgents. Already there were troopers moving into their communications arrays, broadcasting the defeat over the locals. By tomorrow, they'd be leaving the planet a ruin, both a lesson taught and an example given to its neighbors.

A short burst of static came over his comm, with an alarmed voice. "Commander, you'd better get back here-" It cut off abruptly. Cody frowned. Waxer didn't usually call for help. He'd broken his men into smaller teams to secure their set of blocks surrounding the former barricade.

He opened a channel. "On my way." Then he turned, gesturing for the three with him to follow. Waxer and his group were not far, and it took only a moment to run from one point to the other, retracing steps quickly and following the course Cody had ordered them to take.

Cody, in front, stopped upon arrival at the scene. He looked for his men first. Three stood clustered to one side, two of them restraining one. Recognizable by the markings on the armor and the furious language of his body, Waxer was extremely angry, attempting to shove past the pair of brothers holding him back.

There was a burst of light from a blaster, lightning fast. It lit the grey space with a flash, highlighting the contrast between their white armor and the char staining it, casting sharp-edged shadows against the wall of the alley. Cody turned his head to find the source of the blaster shot. Before him, a figure fell. A second shot, a second flash. Another figure fell.

There was only one left, kneeling. Hands behind his head, shaking, resting on grey hair. There was a keening sound from the man, a final flash, a final body crumpling down onto the street. Four bodies total, lying dead in the street. One figure was standing casually behind them, checking the power cell on his blaster, now that the work was done. Hawker noticed him then, his head coming up. He raised a hand in casual greeting. "They were trying to make a run for it, sir," came over the comm in his helmet, by way of explanation.

He looked at the bodies. Two were little. Two were old. All four were laid out, face down, shot from behind. He looked to Waxer, who had stopped struggling to turn away, his hands on his knees, half bent as though fighting nausea.

Their orders were to find Jedi. Their orders were to put down resistance. Their orders were _not_ to perform executions.

The world became very narrow, focused solely upon the man fiddling with his Deece. Before he thought too much, he was moving forward, casting aside his own DC-17 and grappling Hawker around the throat. Moving forward, forcing his brother backwards, leaving him stumbling and shouting in surprise, weapon clattering to the ground. There were a few shouts of alarm from behind, but Cody ignored them, slamming Hawker up against the wall with one hand, and ripping his helmet off with the other.

There was only confusion on his face, and a bit of desperation for air. Cody slammed him against the wall again, letting the back of his head crack solidly against the grey brick.

He asked it very quietly, almost politely. "You want to explain to me what you're doing?"

Hawker was struggling, gauntleted fingers clutching and scrabbling for purchase against Cody's. His feet were on the ground, but high enough that it was difficult to get solid enough purchase to brace himself for breaking Cody's grip. Within the confines of his helmet, Cody glared, pushing his face closer to Hawker's unguarded one, allowing the blank, intimidating gaze of the stormtrooper to do its' work. The younger clone froze, the bulbous black eyes of his Commander's helmet looming close. He gulped in air, wheezing. He stopped struggling, tried to speak. The hand on his windpipe eased ever so slightly. A thin stream of air reached his lungs and he took a breath. "Following orders –"

_Slam_. Hawker's head cracked against the brick, and he saw blackness for a moment while his vision tunneled. The first thing he saw was a stark white and black face peering at him, seeming to grimace from the angle of shadows. "Wrong answer. Try again."

"We're supposed to break the resistance –"

Cody tightened his grip and lifted, forcing Hawker higher up on his toes. "Right answer. Now, explain to me what about those four looked like insurgents to you?"

Hawker, gasping for air, tried to shoot him a dirty look. Cody cut his audio line and snarled a violent curse as he slammed Hawker against the wall again, flicking it back on when he was ready. This was what it meant to be a stormtrooper now. This is what it meant to be army, Imperial army. Days when there were noble men to follow and good men to lead seemed to be a pretty fantasy from long ago. A legend, a myth of better days that were gone. The Republic was a dream made into a nightmare.

They were supposed to be heroes. There was a time when they were. Too many had forgotten that. Too many never even knew. Quietly, letting the cold anger of his voice carry through his external audio, Cody said, "We're not here to kill everything in sight." He yanked Hawker forward, threw him stumbling down. He hit the ground hard, rolled, looked up with a glare.

"Our orders are to put down resistance," Hawker snapped, a hand wandering towards his throat. "How do you know they're _not_?"

Cody looked at the man, lying on the duracrete. Brothers shouldn't have so much resentment towards each other. It wasn't right. They should be family. The only family each of them had. Hawker shouldn't hate him. But that was the look in his eyes, unmasked from behind the helmet.

"Because not everyone in the galaxy is out to kill everyone else," he told him, gaze straying to the four forms lying on the ground, face down, remains of their scorched hair releasing an unpleasant odor. "And you shouldn't assume they are."

He stepped forward, reached out a hand to pull Hawker up. His brother hesitated, reluctantly reached out, let Cody pull him up, then dropped it, looking disgusted, turning to pick up his helmet and stomping off as he jammed it over his head. Only the most basic respect for a commanding officer, and even that was resentful and vicious. Cody closed his eyes for a pained moment, then scooped up his discarded weapon. There was nothing to cover the bodies with. Brothers were sometimes left on the battlefield in the same way, though their wounds were almost always on the front, from charging forward. Those who were shot from behind were taken by the cheap shots of an enemy. Disrespectful. Dishonorable. Only evil men took out an enemy in such a petty and wrong way. The family lay as dead on the ground as any of his brothers.

He cut his audio. He didn't know any proper words, but felt something must be said. He wasn't a Jedi, but he looked at the bodies of a pair of grandparents and a pair of kids and murmured, "May the Force be with you." It was the only phrase he could think of that seemed even vaguely appropriate. Then he turned away, forced aside a bitter sadness.

Three of his men stood clustered closer to Hawker. There was a solidarity in their stances. Two stood by, their emotions and opinions unreadable in their attention to their surroundings. They did their job, asked no questions, made no judgments. Only Waxer stood off to one side, posture pained, the black ovals of his helmet aimed towards the bodies. No good would come of staying. Hawker had always been trouble. It would not take much longer for him to become directly insubordinate. Then Cody would be forced to take real action. It was not a thing he looked forward to.

"Let's move out," he ordered.

Men began to move, and Cody slid into place behind him, allowing Waxer to take up the rearguard. Waxer he could trust. Waxer who had been with him so long, Waxer who was one of the last of his original men. The others he kept watch on as they filed through the alley and back into the street. There would be no dividing of forces now. No sharing of duties to make the load lighter. No given trust that others could do a job well. Cody wanted to keep the men together, keep them human. They were all human. They were. He would not compare their callousness, their unfeeling actions, to machinery. They were men, his men, and he would do right by them. Even if it meant beating sense into them.

He looked at his group, swore once, softly, to himself. Strangely, Waxer had not followed. "Wait here," he told the others, turning back.

Waxer was standing still in the grey of the alleyway, when Cody rounded the accompanying building's corner. No light reached there, leached away by dark clouds and smoke. There was too much stillness. To all appearances, Waxer was focused only on the unmoving dead. His back was slightly bent, hands hanging heavily at his sides. The effect was eerie, and Cody found himself pausing for a moment before calling out.

Slowly, Waxer's hands raised and he pulled off his helmet. He let it drop to the ground. Then, slowly at first, but faster with each moment, he began to claw at the armor on his arms, stripping it off the underlining black bodysuit. The plastoid made a dull clinking sound as it hit the ground, first gauntlets, then forearm plates. His hands moved up to his shoulders and sought out the gaps and fastenings in the armor, pulling pieces off.

It was deliberately done. Not wild, crazed yanking as though dirty. This was a choice, not a breaking. A departure. Better this, than Waxer going the way of Boil, running berserker into a fight for a moment of pure glory before the violent end. One by one, friends and brothers and comrades-in-arms left in one way or another.

Pieces of armor continued to fall to the ground, the dirty white armor of a veteran. Piece by piece, the guise of a stormtrooper fell away, revealing more and more of the man underneath. Better this, than death or madness or loss of humanity. Waxer deserved better. Someone deserved to get out, and get out properly. There was a little ship that Cody'd been tracking privately, a little ship that turned up in unexpected places and at unexpected times, that almost surely contained others. Others who were free. Old friends were still around. Someone deserved better.

He returned to his men waiting on the street.

"Where's Waxer?" came a voice.

A single shot was fired from the alley. Disinterested postures straightened, heads turned towards the sound. Over their audio, someone could be heard sucking in a sharp breath. There was an uncomfortable shifting in the group. A few glances between themselves. Heads lowered.

"Not coming," Cody said quietly.

Alone now. For the first time, he wondered how much longer he would last.

Commander Cody turned, left.

* * *

Hawker is an OC. I've been reading a bit about dragonflies lately, and 'hawker' dragonflies, also known as 'darner' dragonflies, are very large members of the species, and are known to prey on smaller dragonflies. Though that makes them sound rather vicious, some hawkers actually will approach people. (A rather gigantic black and yellow one decided I was a great landing pad once. Couldn't get the thing off! Pretty though.) Anyway, that's my random thought process on OC names for this chapter!

If you remember from '_Said the Joker'_, this is where Waxer deserts and shoots up his armor to make it look like he'd been attacked and/or dragged off, in case anyone was wondering where he disappeared to. To the other members of this group, the implication is somewhat different. Cody, though, realized what was going on and got in contact with Rex to get Waxer out. Essentially, this is a turning point for both of them – Waxer leaves, Cody begins to think about getting out as well.

The title of this chapter is lifted from an episode of _Doctor Who_. Anyone who can figure out what the connection is gets an internet cookie. ;)

As always, thank you to everyone who has so kindly reviewed! **rabbitwriter, KatiaSwift, Elven-Spear, Red, almostinsane, rockforthecross, BetaReject, Jadedsnowtiger, Librarian Girl, littlelionluvr and TamachanKICK**!

Thanks to you all!  
~Queen


	8. Let Us Not Talk Falsely

_What Any of it is Worth_

_

* * *

_

Chapter 8. Let Us Not Talk Falsely

* * *

The hour was late.

Their meeting place was not quite empty. Though it was a far more relaxed atmosphere than the last cantina one of these meetings took place in, it was a cantina nonetheless. Music was still pouring loudly from speakers tucked into corners, though it echoed across a mostly empty floor. Colored strobe lights pulsed overhead. A few couples sat in cloistered corners, faces and bodies pressed close, half-forgotten drinks sitting on tables before them, ice melting in the glasses. It smelled of sweat and alcohol and greasy food. A droid busboy was clearing a table, and the clink of plates and glasses chimed neatly against each other as it scooped the dirty dishes into a tray with long, spindly arms, then zoomed off to another table. A bartender was idly cleaning glasses behind the bar. He looked up at Ahsoka's entrance, nodded once, then went back to his business as the Togruta scanned the room, clearly intent upon business of her own.

She stepped down the stairs, avoiding the droid as it swept past, making for a dark, unobtrusive corner with a good view of the rest of the room. A hooded figure waited for her there, a pale hand flicking out to pick up a glass of amber liquid. Ice blue eyes gleamed from the shadows within the hood.

Ahsoka slid silently into the booth. The cantina would close soon, and thus left them little time to conduct their business. "I have a proposition for you," she began.

* * *

"One!"

Four small fists moved outward, mostly in unison. Four other small bodies stepped neatly to the side, their fists coming back to rest just above their hips. They all paused, then returned to standing up straight. Ctesius sneezed, then rubbed his nose. Neaera, standing across from him, giggled.

Waxer smiled slightly, then continued to pace down the row, his hands tucked neatly behind his back.

"Two!"

Four small fists again moved outward, gentle strikes not meant to truly come in contact with the bodies of their partners. The remaining four children stepped to the side, this time bringing their arms up in a simple block. Another pause, and they retreated to their starting positions.

"Three!"

The motions were repeated, the straight punch ranging down one side of the row, and the block down the other. The block grew increasingly complex, little by little, with each turn. Now the defenders drew back, brought their hands up into the block, forearms resting on either side of their partner's elbow. Then, swiftly, their left hands moved forward in a jab, what would be a quick backhand strike were this a real match.

Roo-Roo yawned, and as he rounded behind her, he gave her a light tweak on her ear flap. She scowled at him a little, patting her ear defensively. Waxer gave her a grin and a tilt of the head. She sighed, looked longingly at the four other older children practicing with wooden swords, then returned her attention to Olwen, who stood across from her.

"Four!"

This time, the four defenders leapt to the side, catching their opponent's arms between their own. The left forearm was placed on the outside, the right hooked within. Carefully, they applied slight pressure, turning the bodies of the attackers to the side. Should they do so with force, the torque would be strong enough to wrench an opponent to the ground. Or, if their elbow was locked correctly, to break it. The children never used such a level of strength, and he doubted the thought of such violence even occurred to the younger ones. He wasn't sure how real much of these training exercises were to them yet. Someday, though, they would be invaluable.

Roo-Roo carefully doubled over as Olwen tried to manage the maneuver with a larger partner. He rotated which one of the older five he kept with the younger group when they drilled basics. Today was Roo-Roo's turn. Tomorrow she could practice with swords with the others. It was as fair a system as they could make.

He took a breath in to call out for the fifth strike, but a particularly unpleasant cracking sound, immediately followed by a cry of pain, interrupted. The eight children practicing hand to hand looked up and over at the older children.

Waxer sighed. Maera looked furious. Rithron was looking embarrassed, dropping his practice sword and apologizing profusely.

He ran a hand over his face and headed over, the younger set of children quickly following behind. This was the second time in two weeks. Last time it was Roo-Roo getting whacked in the head by the overzealous Zabrak boy. This time it appeared to be Temese. Thoosa was kneeling beside him, hovering and trying to determine if he was alright. Temese was sitting on the ground, clutching the top of his head while tears dripped out of his eyes, tightly squeezed shut. He was biting his lip, trying not to cry out again.

"You can't keep showing off!" Maera was shouting, pointing at Rithron with her sword. "You keep hurting people! You're not supposed to make contact!"

Rithron was starting to turn red, and he spluttered back, defensively, "I said I was sorry! It was an accident!"

"You keep having accidents! What if it was Neaera or Ctesius you hit?"

He scoffed. "I wouldn't spar with Neaera or Ctesius. They're little."

Maera scowled at him, then started to approach Rithron. Waxer quickly closed the remaining space between them. Judging by her body language, there was going to be another person with a bump to the head soon, and this one wouldn't be an accident. He stepped between them just as Rithron seemed to catch on to what Maera was planning and back away. Waxer placed himself between the pair. For two kids who usually led the others, they certainly fought enough. He sighed and pushed Rithron to one side of him, only to have the boy lean around and shout, "I said I was sorry!"

"Are you going to hit me next?" Maera demanded, bristling, but with Waxer between them, stopped her charge.

Rithron blanched. "I wouldn't do that."

"You just – "

"That's _enough_," Waxer said, firmly. He reached out towards Maera, palm up. She frowned a little, then turned her sword over and handed it to him by the handle. "Rithron, did you apologize to Temese?"

"I said I was sorry!" he protested.

Waxer frowned down at him. "Did you just shout that you were sorry a lot, or did you actually apologize?"

Rithron looked pained. He lowered his head and turned towards Thoosa and Temese, still sitting on the ground. Temese had opened his eyes, and Thoosa had an arm around him, supportively. "I'm sorry," he said, looking down at the other boy. Temese nodded once in acceptance and winced at the movement. Rithron hung his head.

"Thoosa, take him in to Nura to have his head checked." The girl nodded, then helped Temese to his feet, and began steering him towards the house.

Waxer sighed. It was almost lunchtime anyway. It'd be hard to get the smaller younglings to pay attention now, with the interruptions. "Roo-Roo," he asked, "Take everyone else to wash up for lunch."

The Gungan girl nodded, then turned and began herding the curious children up towards the house. Maera turned to go with them, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Not you. You help Rithron clean up the boloballs and practice swords," he said, gesturing towards the wide expanse of yard and the scattering balls across it from an earlier levitation practice.

"But I didn't do anything!" Maera protested.

Waxer straightened, looking down at the two of them and tucking his hands behind his back as he tried to choose his words. "You need to learn to control your temper, Maera," he told her, and before she could splutter another objection, he added, to Rithron, "And you need to learn to be more careful of what you're doing." He paused. He'd heard Ahsoka use a particular phrase with the younglings, something Jedi sounding. He added, "You need to be more mindful of your surroundings. Being skilled is a wonderful thing, but knowing when to use those skills appropriately is a skill in and of itself. Can you work on that?"

Rithron looked thoughtful. Waxer reached out and put a hand on his head, patted it once. "The others look up to you two. These are dark times. You need to rely on each other to survive. Even if you don't always get along."

The two children looked at each other. Maera harrumphed and folded her arms. Rithron looked down and flushed to his ears. Waxer suppressed a laugh. The boy was always at his most bigheaded when Maera was nearby, and he and Nura had eventually begun to realize he'd developed a bit of a crush on the girl. He wanted little more than to get along. His constantly showing off was apparently an awkward attempt to impress her. So far, it wasn't working very well.

"Understand?" he asked.

The reply came in two glum voices at once: "Yes, sir."

"Off you go."

They began to trudge out onto the field, collecting the balls in the process.

He watched them. They were troublesome, sometimes, but they were good kids.

He smiled to himself. He felt proud.

* * *

Ahsoka slid silently into the booth. The cantina would close soon, and thus left them little time to conduct their business. "I have a proposition for you," she began.

Ice rattled in the glass when Ventress set it back down. She tilted her head so that her face was more easily visible. She lifted a brow, expectant. The two women had come to a kind of understanding, though neither would willingly admit to any form of alliance. As reluctant as Ahsoka was to admit it, that would change if she had her way tonight. She needed Ventress, if her plan were to succeed.

Unlike in the past, they now shared a common enemy, a common goal, though they took their own ways of reaching it. Ahsoka tried not steady herself visibly by making motions such as deep breaths or nervous gestures. Ventress had gained some measure of her trust, but it was given very cautiously. The datastick the former Separatist Commander provided- with the names of Force-users still wanted by the Empire- led to many leads, and several rescues. It was not enough to offset all the damage she had done during the Clone Wars, but it was proof of little changes in Ventress that were slowly proving to be significant.

This proposal would test the extent of those changes. When they met again, for the first time after the end of the war, Ahsoka could feel a shift around her old enemy. It was not a complete and utter change. Ventress still felt like Ventress, always a hurricane of emotion riddled through with anger. Her emotions were potent, but now, rather than caught up in them, Ventress seemed to be standing amid them, controlling them, giving them direction. It was not the calm detachment the Jedi strove to practice, nor was it the blind rage the Sith allowed themselves to indulge in. It was something _different_, something_ between_, something uniquely and strangely Ventress. It was not light, but it was not of the dark, either.

It was this that gave her hope. If Ventress - Ventress full of rage and fury and vengeance – could turn from the Dark Side, then what was to say others could not? She could still feel an ache in her chest, late at night when she sat before a candle and thought of her Master, prayed for a change of heart that may never come. Ventress, in some strange, small way, represented the possibility that her hopes were not in vain.

The pale woman was waiting for more words, expectant. She tilted her head to one side, the black hem of her hood falling against her cheek in sharp contrast to her skin.

Ahsoka set her sienna colored hands lightly on the table, showing their emptiness in a subtly peaceful gesture. Her blaster was at her hip, her lightsaber carefully tucked under her arm in its holster, hidden by her brown coat. Both were within easy reach, but out of hand. Ventress would recognize this. Her own weapons were also out of sight, though her hands rested in the shadows beneath the table. "I've been admiring your recent work," Ahsoka told her, leaning back against her seat with deliberate calm. She gave a small smile. There was no way of knowing for certain each location the Rattataki visited and influenced, but a variety of small uprisings across the galaxy used similar techniques: quick, unexpected attacks that disrupted Imperial control in localized areas, the insurgents melting into the shadows before anyone could identify them. They struck swiftly, silently, with precise targets, minimal civilian casualties and minimal damage to non-Imperial infrastructure or ships. Most were out of the way places that the Empire had only nominal use for. Places that were bullied by Imperial rule and isolated from any kind of appeals to the remains of the Senate. Larger targets were still out of reach, but if Ahsoka had learned anything in the past few years, it was that a rebellion took time to build. These were small, disjointed resistance cells now, but someday, when they were linked, they would be the beginnings of a network; a foundation for greater things. "I'd like to take things to the next level."

Ventress was unreadable, her face unchanging. The swirl of her Force signature was _cool, collected_, equally inscrutable. She betrayed no thoughts on Ahsoka's words, but settled back slightly in her seat, then turned to the side in a deceptively casual pose, looking out over the nearly empty bar. She placed a leg up onto the seat, bent at the knee, then draped an arm across it. Her other arm came up, her hand resting lightly on the surface of the table. Her fingers drummed the surface once. Ahsoka resisted allowing her smile to grow, noticing the visibility. Ventress gave her a vaguely irritated look, her lips puckering into a small frown, but she did not dismiss the suggestion nor did she say anything insulting. Ahsoka took this as permission to continue.

"I'm proposing an alliance," she said, pausing and still slightly uncomfortable with the idea. "Your groups are isolated, limited in what they can do. I can provide the ability to link them together. If necessary, provide transport and relay intelligence."

The irritated look became more thoughtful, and Ventress's frown deepened in consideration. Ahsoka waited for the inevitable question, which, after a moment, came. "And in exchange you want what?"

"Information. About clones and Force-sensitives." Ventress only looked bored at the suggestion, rolling her eyes. Ahsoka took a breath. "I know it's of only minor interest to you, but to my group, it's very relevant." A few more clones out of the Imperial fleet, a few more free, with full lives given to them, was priceless. To Ventress, it meant only a few less soldiers to kill. She added, "Especially information on any clones that may have turned, or be willing to do so."

Ventress gave her a blank look for a moment, then her lips curled up into an amused sneer. She snorted. "It's happened before, brat, but don't think there are many traitors in the stormtrooper ranks. You're asking me and others to move further into the awareness of the Empire. That's a great risk. And I don't have that much control. I told you before. I start things. Make influence. Give direction. I don't lead." She reached for her glass, lifted it to her lips, drained it. The ice settled again as she took it away from her mouth. She held it up slightly, frowning as she peered through the glass. It picked up the electric blue and green of the lights, seeming to glow from within. Her brows drew together.

There was a strangely discomforting _shift_ in the Force around them, and Ahsoka braced herself. The cool wall of frosty calm surrounding Ventress was suddenly melting, an unidentifiable feeling stirring powerfully beyond it. It was unsettling, a heavy ache of _regret_ she could feel dragging even in her own chest. Ahsoka could not help but breathe in sharply, raising a hand to place over her heart. She looked at Ventress in alarm.

There was a hasty gathering of _control_ as Ventress tamped down. She scowled, annoyed, but the _annoyance_ did not seem to be directed towards Ahsoka. It left her unsure. She waited, watching, as Ventress struggled with something, the unsettled feeling seeping out from her in fits and bursts as she struggled to contain it. Her hands became fists. It was curious. Ahsoka tilted her head to the side, lekku twitching slightly as she watched the woman across from her glare across the cantina. "Why should I take such a risk?"

There were many reasons. She closed her eyes and hung her head. She could plea on behalf of the children, on behalf of the hunted Force-sensitives like themselves. She could try to speak for the dead Jedi, for the clones who were used like tools in a war they never asked to participate in. She could even perhaps try to speak to Ventress's desire for the destruction of the Empire, though precisely why she chose to fight, Ahsoka did not understand. Perhaps a wiser Jedi, an older, more experienced one, would be able to conjure more eloquent words, argue the case more clearly and persuasively.

Ahsoka, though, could only say, as she lifted her head: "Because there are so few defenders left." The said it simply, the hand that rested over her heart coming back down to a place on the table. She looked at her hands. They were small, callused from many years of lightsaber practice.

There was a motion from Ventress, a flick of her fingers and a turn of her head. She turned, straightened, sat upright, her legs swinging back beneath the table. She could feel the Rattataki woman's gaze weigh heavily upon her. Then, very quietly, in tight tones, Ventress said, "There is one thing I want in exchange."

Ahsoka experienced a flash of hope, quickly dampened by the oncoming condition. She looked up, met Ventress's eyes steadily. "What?"

Ventress's serious expression shifted again, and her hands, resting on the tabletop, curled into fists. She looked away, disgruntled. She ground out the phrase: "A piece of information."

She frowned. What information could she possibly have that Ventress didn't? If they were to make an alliance, they would share mission related intelligence - anything relevant to the fight against the Empire, at least. That was implied in the deal. It didn't involve special consideration, so why mention it? Particularly in such a stressful way? If Ventress was about to ask for the location of the children they'd stashed, this conversation was over. She was not giving up Alderaan. Her voice took its' own sharp edge. "What information?"

Ventress seemed to twitch, her ice-cold wall of _control_ cracking, while that bizarrely unsettling feeling stabbed its' way through. Ahsoka's frown deepened into a suspicious scowl. This was getting weird.

"A location."

"_What_ location?" she snapped back.

Ventress's eyes closed for a moment, and she took a heavy breath. Ahsoka stared, leaned back in her seat, suspicion slowing being overridden by concern. Ventress was practically vibrating with the effort to keep something within herself under control, and that control was costing her dearly. Through fissures and cracks in her defense, there was a strange, complicated tangle of feelings slipping away into the Force. _Respect_ intertwined _annoyance_ and _frustration_. There was a unified stab of _fear_ and _admiration _and something bizarrely like_ longing _or_ desire_. Connecting all these contradictions was an underpinning of _hope_ and tentative _trust_.

"Ventress?" Ahsoka asked, beginning to worry. What could possibly cause such conflict in her? She lifted her hands in a wary gesture of reaching out.

Ventress returned her attention to Ahsoka, focused on her hands, then looked away again, sharply. Ahsoka froze, hands hovering in the air. Quietly, with delicately chosen words, she said, "You said before, that Kenobi was alive."

Ahsoka stared, perplexed. "You want to know about Master Kenobi?"

If it were possible, the strained look on her face grew in intensity. Ahsoka sat numbly for a moment, the question coming so unexpectedly. She blinked several times, trying to find some sort of context. The two had fought many times, Ahsoka knew. But she'd also fought Master Skywalker, and herself, and any number of other Jedi. Why did it cost her so much to merely ask the question? What had happened?

Slowly, Ventress was drawing into herself again, those fleeting feelings closing back off behind a cool wall of durasteel grey.

She asked about him before, the night they met again and escaped from the TIE-fighter factory. There was that same complex stab of conflicting emotion, something Ventress seemed unable to completely control. There was no _rage_ in it. No _hatred_ or desire to kill.

Ahsoka looked at Ventress again, very carefully now. The cantina was dim, and the corner they sat in was lit only by the sharp blue and green lights that pulsed through the place. The lights pressed against the darkness of her cloak and against the paleness of her skin. There was no easy way to read her, to know precisely what she was thinking, feeling. She could not simply ask, for Ventress would not tell.

Ventress turned from the Dark.

Slowly, almost gently, she asked, "Why?"

Ventress sat still, unmoving. She replied, with a quiet harshness, "I owe him a debt."

Ahsoka breathed deeply. Whatever happened was too personal to ask, though she was now very curious. She struggled a moment with questions, but responsibility and respect for privacy won out. Perhaps someday she would learn exactly what happened to cause Ventress to turn, and of whatever role Master Kenobi played in it, but it would not be today. Today she was here to make an alliance, not offer sympathy or understanding. She doubted such sentiments would be welcomed, anyway. "You know I can't tell you that," she said, and when Ventress glared at her, she sighed and shook her head. "You're asking too much."

"You want me to run the risk of exposing everything I've done?" she hissed back. "You're asking just as much."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

They glared at each other, neither backing down.

After several long moments, Ventress began, "I have no love of the Empire. I have no reason to lie to you or kill you, as annoying a brat as you are."

How much faith could she place in Ventress? How much hope did she represent? How far could she be trusted? Battle after battle during the Clone Wars, they fought and struggled against each other. Ventress's face and the burning red of her lightsabers haunted more than one nightmare during those years. Even turned from the Dark, how much forgiveness could she be given?

Would anyone ever forgive Master Skywalker?

Ahsoka wanted to believe, so very much. If it were true, and Master Kenobi played some part in Ventress's turn, would he want to see her, as she seemed to want to see him? Knowing Master Kenobi, he probably would. He'd be happy for her. Ahsoka looked across the table, at her old enemy who she wished to turn ally. Someone had to take the first step and offer trust. Ventress, if it was possible, appeared to be trying to make that step, in her own strange way. Simply making the request revealed an odd vulnerability. Enemies did not reveal such things to each other. Not willingly.

"You know that I can't reveal that information," Ahsoka began, and when Ventress's expression began to deepen again into a scowl, she lifted a hand. "And I think you know why." She took a deep breath, then continued, "If this alliance works, and you continue to earn my trust, I'll give you your answer. But not before."

There was a short battle of wills in the silence between them, though the music pumping through the cantina remained loud.

Then, a single word from Ventress: "_Agreed_."

Ahsoka smiled. A moment later, so did Ventress.

* * *

I have fun writing Ventress. She's so…not Jedi.

Also, kudos to 3LW00D and doctor anthony, for correctly getting why I titled the last chapter 'Turn Left'. Turn left and things are good…turn right…not so much. ;)

As always, thank you so much to everyone who has so kindly taken the time to leave me comments. I truly appreciate it when you take the time to review. So, heartfelt thanks to **KatiaSwift, Librarian Girl, 3LW00D, doctor anthony, BetaReject, Kapricorn the Ancient, the Elven-Spear, Jadedsnowtiger **and** almostinsane**! You all rock! Thank you!

~Queen


	9. A Pressing Need to Save the Galaxy

_What Any of it is Worth_

_"Revolution is not a onetime event."_  
_-Audre Lorde_

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Chapter 9. A Pressing Need to Save the Galaxy

* * *

They were close.

The sound of breathing seemed loud in Echo's ears, even though he wore no helmet. In the old battles, the sound of the rest of his brothers breathing over the comm channels was reassuring; the steady sound of life progressing, continuing. Breathing meant survival. This time, though, none of them wore clone trooper armor. Instead they wore paramilitary gear, smaller pieces of armor protecting vital organs and covering their guts. Each wore a pair of thick goggles and a smaller helmet that buckled under their chins. Small earpieces were tucked into their ears, allowing them to communicate back with the _Drake_.

The slightly edgy voice of Behri Mokusei came over the earpiece. "Docking in thirty seconds." She took a deep breath, then added, "Good luck."

Beside him, Fives' drew in a ragged breath and shifted his weight, his fingers flexing apprehensively around his blaster. Behri had joined them several months ago now, and was slowly beginning to take part in some of their missions. She was kept out of the line of fire; though she was growing more confident with a blaster and hand to hand, she was still shiny, inexperienced, and unreliable if a firefight broke out. Behri seemed perfectly aware of this, and if anything, it spoke well for her potential. Only an idiot would want to pick up a blaster one day and go charging into battle the next. Battle was dirty, it was hard, and it was violent. She had no delusions of glory. Today, she was helping Ahsoka pilot the _Drake_ and running their communications. Fives was anxious, more for her than for himself. Echo allowed himself a small smile at his brother's behavior, and spent a moment feeling relieved that his own girl was light years away from danger. Suisen did not know why he was gone, but she would be waiting for him when he returned. It was something to look forward to. He would do his best to survive.

Behri's voice sounded again. "Five. Four. Three. Two…securing lock."

There was a hiss as they connected to the doors of the other ship, and Echo's ears popped as the pressure changed.

He was not looking forward to this fight.

* * *

The battle that was about to begin would measure the true extent of the damage.

Along each wall of the medicenter lay men on beds, caught up in the blasts of the previous night. Most of the men were weapons specialists, AT-TE drivers and mechanics, ground crew preparing for the assault about to lay waste to Christophsis. It could have been worse. But it should never have happened at all. A traitor, a clone, a brother, turning against them. Once, a day ago, such a thing would have been considered impossible. Slick's treason would put more than these men into the medbay, kill more over the course of the day that was now dawning.

Rex grit his teeth and walked forward, looking at each casualty in turn. On each bed lay a different man. Some lay still, their eyes closed and chests rising and falling steadily under mounds of gauze. The smell of charred flesh, pus and bacta lay thick in the air. Medical droids walked between men, going calmly about the business of healing. They slept, those with faces not wrapped in bandages showing stress, their brows drawn sharply above closed eyes, as though plagued with bad dreams as well as pain.

In the few hours since Rex checked on Slick, now locked securely in a holding cell, the shock of it had worn off. He still did not understand Slick's actions or motives. You protect your brothers by watching out for them on the field, by keeping them safe, not by trying some mad gambit of blowing up the ground assault and leaving them to the mercy of their enemies.

He walked past them, down the length of the medicenter. One of the injured opened his eyes and noticed the Captain pacing through the ward. The man gave a deliberate nod of his head, in acknowledgement of the presence of an officer, then closed his eyes and rested back into the pillow. Rex paused for a moment and looked down. Up and down the soldier's right arm were wrappings of bacta-soaked gauze. The wrappings were too heavy to determine the extent of the damage. Bacta could heal much, but not everything. The trooper still had his arm; that was good. With luck, he would keep use of it as well.

Slick had said, standing in his cell:_ "You'll understand someday. Maybe not now, but you will."_

Rex turned away, balled a hand into a fist, and resisted the urge to return to the holding cells, grab Slick, and march him up here to see what he had done. To make him _understand_ the harm he'd caused.

Narrow thinking, the exclusion of consequences for actions taken. Even if Slick had meant well, his intentions did not justify the results.

He rounded the corner, and a row of bacta tanks stretched out before him. Several were filled. Medical droids stood nearby, monitoring the progress of the men in the tanks. Bubbles floated to the top of the liquid, emerging from the breath masks they wore. Harsh white lights shone upon the transparasteel tubes, casting an eerie glow across the dimmer lighting in the rest of the wing.

They would heal. They would heal, and return to the field, to be shot at and die. How much more time were they earning in the tanks? A week? A month? A year?

Rex closed his eyes, opening them a moment later when he heard footsteps approach.

Cody was standing nearby, looking up into one of the tanks. Bright white light reflected off the black slit of his helmet's visor.

Then he turned to Rex and said, "You ready?"

Rex cast a final look back, across the rows of men injured before the battle even began. He unclipped his helmet from his belt, placed it over his head, and said, "Yes."

* * *

He was not looking forward to this fight.

On the left side of the cargo bay, Rex moved forward and retracted the doors, revealing the other ship's outer hull emergency doors. He stooped, affixed the door-breaking charge to the hull, and quickly backed out of the way as the other four men braced themselves, ducking their heads down and curling around the weapons they held in their hands.

There was a sudden scream in the air as the charge began to tear through the metal of the hull, sending off the harsh smell of scorching durasteel. The five men pressed themselves against the walls until the two ribbons of red flame finished cutting through the door, meeting at the top and setting off a smaller, second charge that blew the door in.

Through the smoke clogged air, a stream of red blaster bursts flew, flowing into the gap between the ships they created. In front of him, Fives moved, yanking a pair of droid poppers off his utility belt, priming them, then tossing them hard into the gap, aiming low and beneath the shots flying higher above.

Droid poppers weren't seen too often anymore, with the Separatist droid army now obsolete and unused. The beauty of it, though, was that the electro-magnetic pulse they emitted still worked quite well on a stormtrooper's HUD. They would not see what was coming next, and by the time they realized the method of attack, they would be unable to retreat.

Echo reached into his belt and pulled off a stunner grenade. The poppers would only disorient a HUD for a few seconds, unlike a droid. They had to knock the men wearing those helmets down, and keep them down. As the electric blue pulse of the poppers briefly lit up the clouds of smoke, Echo rolled in the grenade, and a moment later, there was a sharp _flash-bang_ rapidly followed by several loud thuds as the explosive release of the stunner's overpressure flung anyone in the corridor beyond the breach from his feet.

Fives moved forward on one side of the hallway, Rex on the other. Cody followed Rex, Echo followed Fives, and Waxer followed Echo. They moved with cautious, swift steps into the Imperial ship, Rex poising himself to watch the leftward side of the corridor, Cody winging out to the right. The smoke was beginning to clear, though sirens wailing of the ship's breach sounded through the air. They only had a few moments to get moving.

Cody turned to them, gestured at Fives, then towards the five stormtroopers sprawled gracelessly on the floor. Fives nodded once, withdrew a pair of thin, plastoid binders from his belt, and set to work cuffing the men's hands together and removing their blasters.

Cody gestured again, this time towards Echo and Waxer, then down the hallway. They'd spent the last four days preparing for this, and each man knew his responsibilities. Fives guarded the exit in case something went wrong, ensure their escape route. Rex and Cody would move towards the bridge. Echo and Waxer would do a sweep of the halls and lock them down. If everything went belly-up, Ahsoka would come down and provide backup while Behri got them prepped for hyperspeed. Unless things went bad, their Jedi support would be remaining out of view of the stormtroopers.

The point was to capture, not to kill.

In the brig of the transport ship, ten men and women were being moved to Coruscant. Ten men and women who had bad luck and bad information during a fight on their homeworld. This rescue was the result of the uneasy alliance with Asajj Ventress. The people had once been hers, and the remnants of their resistance cell called on her for help retrieving their leaders. Ventress, in turn, now halfway across the galaxy and mired in other matters, contacted Ahsoka.

Ten more fighters, ten more rebels. A clone crew running the ship and guarding the prisoners. A crew that might be turned. Allies, or potential allies, all.

Echo moved, running down the hallway two paces behind Waxer. The information the former Separatist Commander provided them over the last few months had consistently proven good; troop movements, reports of emerging technologies used in weapons, video recordings taken by locals of Imperial civil liberties abuses, a captured clone stormtrooper who had recently decided he hated his day job. There was an instance of an unpleasant brush with Imperials which had come too close. They'd disappeared quickly, safely, aided by friends on a world otherwise content with Imperial rule.

This was a small transport, heading directly to Coruscant, now deemed _Imperial Center_ by Emperor Palpatine. The insurgents were to be made an example of.

They drew up on the end of the hallway, paused. Waxer took a quick look around the corner, motioned them forward. It was not a large ship, and they'd already damaged it with the _Drake's_ turbolasers, by dropping out of hyperspace and striking fast, targeting communications to silence them, engines to stall them, and weapons to leave them defenseless.

Klaxons continued to screech warnings overhead. Echo grit his teeth and moved forward.

They hit another corner. This time, Waxer did not even need to peer around. The steady beat of running feet was echoing through the hallway, growing louder as it grew close. Waxer made a hissing noise, reached for the droid poppers on his belt, ripped them off, primed, and flung them down the hallway. The electric blue flash pulsed, light reflecting off the walls in a brief, eerie glow. Echo reached for the stunner grenade at his belt, but as he leaned around the corner to take aim, he froze. The hallway narrowed; the smaller the space, the more intense the impact. There were four men struggling frantically with their helmets, desperately trying to recalibrate them. The wave of concussion from the stunner would be strong enough to snap their spines if they hit the walls. He grimaced, replaced the grenade, drew his blaster, and fired on the nearest stormtrooper.

Set to stun, the blaster still hurled him from his feet, sending him sprawling to the ground. Waxer stepped out into the hallway, knelt on one knee, and took his own aim, flinging a second man into the wall with a blast of his own. The remaining two tossed themselves in different directions, grappling with their blasters in one hand and their helmets in the other, blindly searching for cover as they heard their companions fall. Echo took down a third man. It was then that the fourth looked up, the black oval eyes of his helmet fixating immediately on their position. His HUD was back online. It was a moment too late; in the second between his head lifting and those blank black opticals locking on Echo's face, Waxer took him out with a final shot.

Echo stepped forward, holstering his blaster and pulling the binder strips from his belt, began the work of tying them together and disarming them. Waxer's voice drifted over the comlink, reporting. "Four down in starboard corridor."

Behri's voice came back, immediately. "_Copy. Four down in starboard corridor. Bridge is secure; repeat, bridge is secure_."

Echo let out a sigh as the claxons shut off. Cody and Rex were successful. His ears were ringing. There were not many days, anymore, when he missed his old helmet, but its ability to tune out obnoxious noises would have been convenient today. He kicked a blaster out of his way, stooped, rolled a stormtrooper over, brought his hands behind him, and quickly fastened the binder around his wrists.

With the bridge secure, they only had to worry about clean up. Five in the entrance. Four here. At least two on the bridge. A ship this size, with crew and minders for the rebels, would need at least fifteen men to run it. That left minimally four. He cast a quick gaze at Waxer, who was taking up point at the end of the hallway, watching for the remaining men.

Echo moved to the next man, removed the power cell from his blaster, pulled him out of a curled up heap and rolled him onto his stomach, tied the binder into place.

Then came a sudden sound of feet pounding and a startled yelp from Waxer. His blaster hit the floor with a clatter. Echo spun, dropping low and towards the wall, reaching again for his weapon as he looked at Waxer and the new opponent. The stormtrooper had an arm around Waxer's neck from behind, and an E-11 blaster rifle aimed at his head. Waxer was glaring, his head tilted to the side as though to get a look at the man behind him, his knees bent and his hands up on the other man's forearm, poised for motion the moment he had a chance to escape. The trooper jostled him, tightened his grip and said, with his voice slightly mechanized from being broadcast over his helmet's audio channel, "Drop it."

Echo wasn't fully drawn, the barrel of the blaster still pointed down. There was no way to aim carefully enough not to hit Waxer, not without giving the trooper enough time to shoot his hostage. Echo grimaced, bent low to the floor, and set the hand blaster down, pushing it away from him slightly. He lifted his hands up, kept his weight low and forward, in case there was an opportunity to dart ahead and break the man's hold on Waxer before he could shoot.

Until one of them got the chance to reverse their situation, Echo stalled. "We've already taken the bridge," he said, looking straight into the trooper's black opticals. The faces of clone trooper helmets never looked particularly friendly, but there was something outright menacing, almost sneering, about the blank, helmeted face of a stormtrooper. Only white and black, with no colors to define rank or legion. It created yet more uniformity on the outside, more sameness, forcing the identical men within those pieces of armor to be ever more identical. There was a white glare reflecting off the trooper's dark eyepieces from the florescent lighting above. "Most of your men are already down. You've already lost. We'd prefer not to kill you. Put the blaster down."

"You're criminals," the man snapped back, his familiar voice coming through the comm crisp with anger. "You won't get away with this. The Empire will hunt you down."

Echo did not move his eyes from where the eyepieces of the trooper's helmet. The HUD's wraparound visuals could let him see in any direction, but it was a simple habit of humans to face what they were looking at, especially if under threat. Most brothers behaved in such a way, and Echo was quite certain he had this man's undivided attention. That was good. More attention would be better. He tried not to smile. Waxer would have to move fast when the moment came.

Behri's voice drifted through the earbud, sounding relieved as she reported the happenings elsewhere on the ship. "_Two down in port corridor. Repeat. Two more down in port corridor. Echo, Waxer, please report_."

He ignored her, kept his attention on the trooper. "I wouldn't call us criminals," Echo said, playing for more time and attention. "But even if we were, wouldn't the great and merciful Galactic Empire prefer to give us a fair trial, if we came along peaceably?"

The trooper twitched. Echo read it as annoyance. A moment later, it was confirmed. "You're criminals. Animals. Your kind doesn't _deserve_ a trial."

Echo's brows raised. "My kind? Really?" he said, letting his voice drip with irony as he lifted his hands to his neck and quickly unbuckled the helmet on his head. With a slight toss of his head and a light shove, the helmet slid off his head and clattered to the ground. Echo made for his goggles, fingers stretching out towards his temples.

The trooper jerked Waxer backward, began to call out for Echo to stop whatever he was doing, but in that moment, Echo slipped the goggles up onto his forehead, revealing his face: the brown eyes, square jaw, broad nose, angled cheek bones, heavy brows of a clone.

There was a moment, then, when the trooper seemed to stop, a single moment when _recognition_ occurred, the recognition of one identical man to another, and an instant's worth of shock. In that instant, Waxer moved. His hand shot up from below, shoving the muzzle of the blaster upward as he slammed his head backward into the stormtrooper's helmet. There was sharp, plastic sounding _crack_ as the back of Waxer's helmet slammed into the front of the trooper's, and a whine from the E-11 as it warmed and discharged, a bright red bolt shooting into the ceiling and ricocheting off down into the floor. Waxer twisted, brought his arms up, spun, then brought them down, one wrapping and locking around the trooper's arm while the other snaked behind his head and forced him to bend, slamming his head into Waxer's rising knee.

Echo leapt forward, wrapped his hands around the blaster and yanked, twisting to the side to avoid the barrel and the bursts of red light firing out of it. The trooper hung on as tightly as he could, while Waxer twisted, lifted a foot and kicked him, hard, in side of the knee. His legs buckled, and as he went down, he lost his grip on his weapon, allowing Echo to disarm him as Waxer finished subduing, twisting an arm up behind him and forcing him to the floor, firmly planning a boot between the man's shoulder blades.

The trooper was clearly biting back a shout of pain, raspy grunting noises being emitted through his helmet as he struggled against Waxer's grip.

Beginning to sound alarmed, Behri's voice came over the comm again. "_Waxer, Echo, please report!_"

Echo lifted a hand to the earbud and opened a channel. "_We're alright. Five down in aft section. We'll be proceeding forward once we get this wrapped up._"

There was a sigh of relief. "_You need to be careful!"_

Echo smiled a little. She was so civilian, sometimes. Like a worried sister. "_Thanks. We're on our way forward_."

Waxer was backing away from the downed trooper, who was wriggling and kicking on the floor, now with his hands tied tightly behind his back. He bent down and scooped up his helmet, quickly tied it back onto his head.

This man saw them as criminals. He now probably thought them – or at least Echo – to be traitors as well. He'd find out soon enough that there was more than one clone on this mission. He pushed his goggles back over his eyes.

Echo wondered how old he was. If he'd ever served under the Republic, or if he was one of the new clones conditioned for absolute Imperial loyalty. Judging by the commentary, probably the latter.

Did he truly see the Empire as a source of justice?

How could he know the difference, when that was all he'd been taught?

He picked up his discarded blaster from where it lay on the floor, then turned to follow Waxer further into the ship.

How could a man tell what was right, when all he'd ever been taught was wrong? Would he even listen to another point of view, consider their offer?

Echo pitied him, and left him lying on the floor.

* * *

Some action this chapter, but it's mainly setting up chapter 10. Things are continuing to change. We're roughly 5-6 years post Order 66 at this point, so the Empire is quite deeply rooted, and most of the clones we know are probably no longer around. It's so tempting to save everyone, because I love the characters so much, but the truth is, if the Empire was bleeding clone deserters, someone would notice. It's too sad.

Also, I thought I'd mention – I post status updates on my profile page, if anyone is interested in my writing progress.

And of course, as always, for everyone who has so kindly left me reviews and comments, many thanks! **3LW00D, KatiaSwift, Elven-Spear, Deltoraquestlover, doctor anthony, shakespeareaddict, BetaReject, rabbitxwriter, almostinsane ,ThoseWereTheDays, ****Scifilover **and **littlelionluvr**! Hugs and cookies for you all, and best wishes for the New Year! *throws confetti!*

~Queen


	10. Songs of Captivity and Freedom

_What Any of it is Worth_

_"Congress shall make no law...abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press;  
or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."  
- First Amendment to the United States Constitution  
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_"...governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."  
- Preamble to the United States Declaration of Independence_

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Chapter 10. Songs of Captivity and Freedom

* * *

He expected torture.

His helmet had been taken from him. He had not been able to see any of the others, locked in one of the ship's holding cells, so recently occupied by the terrorists they'd apprehended. Those same terrorists were now free, thanks to the aid of their comrades. It was as disturbing as it was disgusting, the thought that these criminals would again be free to run loose on the galaxy. He bent his head, grit his teeth, and chafed his wrists together, unable to even feel the thin band of plastoid binder wrapped around his gauntlets, pinning his hands behind his back. The plates of his forearm armor slid awkwardly against each other as he tried to stretch and flex the binders enough to free an arm. It had no effect.

One of them was another clone. He'd revealed his face as a distraction, preventing Darner from managing to take even one of them down with him. He scowled at the floor as he marched, trying to ignore the man steering him forward. It'd been a bad move, and he was somewhat relieved no one else was conscious enough to see him, in his panic, try to take a hostage. The other clone was right; he was desperate and if they'd taken the bridge, he had nowhere to go. The best he could do was take one of them down with him, but he'd failed even at that, allowing himself to be startled when the other man had revealed his face. A clone! A _traitor_! What kind of right thinking soldier turned away from the Imperial Army?

His guard, face covered by the goggles they all seemed to be wearing, was maneuvering him down familiar hallways, a blaster pointed at his back and a firm grip on his upper arm. They moved in silence, with the only sound their steady footfalls on the floor of the corridor. Darner kept his head low, his chin down, but lifted his eyes up enough to watch them approach a gaping hole, which was once a set of emergency doors in the outer hull of the ship. He grimaced, and his guard pushed him through the breach and into the other ship. He stumbled, the guard's grip on him tightening, steadying. He jerked his arm away, trying to display what little defiance he could muster.

They would torture him, then they would kill him. That was the way of things.

* * *

Two figures slipped into the hotel room, locking the door firmly behind them.

It was a fancier place than they were used to, often traveling on freighters and sleeping in cramped corners, eating in cheap tapcafs or diners. The hotel was not particularly large or impressive, and though it had seen better days, it was clean and comfortable, a boutique hotel which usually catered to middle class tourists on vacation.

Half an hour ago, Fives and Behri were supposed to meet Null ARC-7, named Mereel. Little contact was kept between their group and the Nulls, and Fives was anticipating the meeting with tightly controlled excitement and nervousness. He hoped to sound out the man for a better understanding of the other group's situation, to learn of their progress, to begin establishing sturdier ties to the faction that produced the decelerating cure. It had taken much longer than they'd hoped to go through the first case of serum, but they had finally distributed it across their small network, hunting down men they'd helped to escape the Empire, men who were absolutely stunned at the prospect of a normal human lifespan.

As they reached the hotel, which was the rendezvous point for their meeting, and entered the little café off to one side of the lobby, an extremely relieved serving droid buzzed over, chattering amiably about how pleased he was Fives had returned for his case, which he'd left under his table approximately an hour ago.

Fives began to protest. He and Behri had just arrived, and if the droid was mistaking him for someone else, it could only be Mereel. If something happened to spook off a Null ARC, it would be very bad news for him and Behri. Going further into the restaurant could very well be going further into a trap.

Then the droid produced the case, and it gave him pause. It matched the case he'd been given by Mereel over a year ago, the case that contained transparasteel tubes filled with the decelerating cure. The only difference was a fingerprint scanner affixed to the lock.

Fives did a sweep of the hotel room for unwanted spycams, while Behri set the case down on the small desk beside the bed, frowning down at it and biting her lower lip. She looked at him nervously, and sighed when he nodded the room was clear. They'd asked at the desk if "Fives" had also left a room key. He had, and it was paid for through the next day.

Behri angled herself away from the desk, seating herself on the edge of the plush bed and offering the chair to Fives. He sank down onto it, staring at the case and the lock for several seconds before pressing his thumb against the scanner. Beneath it, it turned bright red, then flicked to green, clicking as it unlocked itself.

Fives lifted the lid. Inside was an array of thin, transparasteel tubes on soft black foam, amber colored serum filling each. There was a scrap of flimsi tucked under one of the tubes. Fives pulled it out and held it up, Behri peering over his shoulder. There were two strings of numbers: a set of coordinates, and a variant frequency for their commlinks. "Why flimsiplast?" Behri asked quietly, her voice just above a whisper. It scratched against the silence of the room.

"Flimsi can't be sliced or traced electronically," he explained, then reached into the case again and pulled out a handheld holo-projector. They exchanged glances, and Behri edged closer to Fives, placing a hand on one of his shoulders as they huddled around it. Fives flicked it on.

Mereel was only a handspan high, shimmering to translucent, turquoise life as the recording began.

"_I_ _know this isn't what you were expecting_, ner vod," the Null began, folding his arms in front of him, his posture casual, face friendly, looking up at them as though he were speaking to them from the other end of an open channel, rather than being prerecorded. "_Things have been running hot here. We've been continuing our own searches. We cover our tracks, but the more work we do, the more attention we potentially draw_." Fives grimaced and Behri nodded once, slowly. "_There's a piece of flimsi in the case with coordinates for the next meeting point. When you need more serum, contact me through the new frequency on the comlink and prepare for another drop at the coordinates_." Mereel straightened, his face becoming pensive. "_Be careful of the new brothers. _Ret'urcye mhi."

The light of the holo-projector died, Mereel flickering out of existence. Fives clutched the disk of the projector in his palm, fingers tightening around its surface.

They sat quietly for a time, looking at the holo-projector, as though it would come back to life and give them better news. As the silence drew on, Behri shifted, placed her hand over Fives', and gently pulled the projector out of his grip. She set it on the desk with a soft tap, then stood, reached out, closed the lid of the case. The scanner flicked from green to red, then went black. Lightly, she ran her fingers over the top of his head, feeling the soft surface of his hair before she angled herself around, sliding herself onto his lap. She curled around him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He remained stiff and uncomfortable for a moment, then eased, his arms rising to circle her waist and tug her closer. She gave a small sigh, lowered her head, and pressed her lips against his temple, just above the number five etched into his skin, letting herself linger there until she felt him relax further.

She murmured, quietly, "We still have more of the cure. They're still allies."

Fives made a noncommittal grumbling sound, low in his throat. "We would be able to do so much more." He was unhappy, but it was a resigned kind of unhappiness, one of understanding in spite of disappointment.

Behri closed her eyes and hugged him a little tighter, leaning her cheek against the top of his head. The last several months had been a dizzying rush of new people, new experiences, new worries. At times, it felt bizarre, the thought of trying to save stormtroopers. To Fives, though, and to the small band of men he worked with and lived with when not traveling, they were brothers, and in need of help. The Nulls' reluctance to form stronger bonds was understandable, as the risk of operating more widely was high, but a disappointment nonetheless. They ran risks of their own. Discovery for the Nulls meant the same as it did for them – an end to any hope of a future. The rush to save what they could must be tempered with caution.

"We're not alone. And someday there will be more." She squeezed him tightly for a moment, then let her arms ease. There would be more. They would find more clones, but in the end, she knew true resistance had to come from more than a scattered handful of old Republic loyalists and pockets of frightened, half-trained revolutionaries.

Until that time came, they were the rebellion.

* * *

They would torture him, then they would kill him. That was the way of things.

He'd never had to participate in persuasive procedures himself. Enemies never gave up information willingly. It had to be _extracted_. He wouldn't give them anything, though. He'd scream lies if he had to, let them run around on some wild bantha chase. If he couldn't take one of them out, then he'd at least feed them lies. He was trained, and trained well; he would resist, and he would lie. He would not help such people, regardless of cost to himself.

Darner scowled at his guard as he was propelled forward. He found himself in a cargo bay, a fairly average sized one, very much what you would expect on an average sized transport vessel. It was entirely nondescript, with clean, bare durasteel walls, which sloped down at the sides, almost as though the ceiling were reaching down to welcome any new cargo. The lighting was dull, turning everything a shade of muted brown-grey. Littered across the hold were a scattering of boxes and crates; it smelled of machine oil, carbon from discharged blasters, and something oddly fruitlike, as though they regularly transported foodstuffs.

A few crates were arranged before him. Several were stacked high to one side. Two others were placed together, forming a makeshift table. A smaller crate was placed beside it, serving as a stool. Darner noticed these things, but it was the two men standing in the room that truly caught his attention. Against the stacked crates stood a clone, leaning casually back, one foot on the ground, the other placed firmly against the container behind him. His arms were folded over his chest. The other was also a clone, sitting on a box on one side of the table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands dangling loosely in the space between them. He looked up as Darner entered, expression guardedly neutral.

A firm shove between his shoulders sent Darner stumbling forward again, then he was pushed down onto the box opposite the second man, who nodded once at the guard, dismissing him. Relieved of his charge, the man turned and headed quickly out of the cargo bay. Darner took a long, slow breath, trying to get his bearings. Neither of these men were the same as the first clone he'd seen earlier in the day. That meant there were three of them. _Three_ traitors.

He felt vaguely sick. It was obscene. These men should be on his side, not running around the galaxy supporting the efforts of terrorist organizations. Their faces should be welcoming, friendly, not looking at him so judgmentally. He had nothing to hide. He was no traitor, no deserter to go around attacking soldiers just doing their jobs. He stiffened his spine, forcing himself to sit upright. He was on the right side of things. He'd show no weakness.

The one leaning by the crates spoke first. "What's your name, kid?"

Darner glared at him. What did they need his name for? It was hardly relevant information to the Empire. The clone was waiting, lifting a brow casually at Darner's prolonged silence. _Skinhead_, Darner dubbed him, glancing then at the second clone, picking out his most distinguishing feature, a long, craggy scar running down one temple. _Scarface_. He did his best to scowl menacingly. He wasn't a kid either. He'd entered the stormtrooper corps a full year ago, and he'd seen plenty of fighting. _Real_ fighting, not the sneaking around these traitors were doing.

Scarface and Skinhead exchanged glances, and Scarface snorted once, running a hand over his shaggy crop of hair before saying, "I'm Cody. That's Rex. No harm in sharing your name with your brothers."

Darner clenched his hands into fists, feeling his armor plates grind against each other as the muscles within them flexed. He looked at them again, more carefully. Skinhead shifted slightly, the foot he'd had braced on the crates behind him coming down to the floor. Scarface leaned back, relaxed, folded his arms across his chest. Darner frowned, looking again between them. Neither of their faces were heavily lined, the way some of the older clones were. Skinhead didn't have hair, but Scarface did, and none of it was grey.

_Brothers_. There were those who still used the term for other clones, though not many. It was a holdover from the old Clone War years. Darner'd never seen much point in it himself. They weren't a big, happy family. They were clones, soldiers in the Imperial Army. That was what unified them, their common purpose, their status as stormtroopers, the elite, not some common set of genes. They were watching him, silently, arms folded, waiting. Was this some kind of tactic? Play nice? What did they want? He breathed in, out, trying not to make it too obvious he was nervous.

Three clones. How many were there in this group, total? He'd seen three. Were there more? To take over their ship so quickly and efficiently, they'd have to have more than three or four men. Ten, probably. How many were clones, if more than these three? He met Scarface's steady gaze for a moment, then turned away. Three clones. Three who'd somehow been convinced to leave their lives in the Empire for lives of criminality. _Brothers_. Why would they be trying to play on their commonalities? Why try to allude to some bond that didn't exist? He breathed in again, sharply, as it clicked. They were asking nicely for names and not using any persuasive procedures because they were _recruiting_.

Did they really think they'd turn him? Make him into a traitor with a few nice words, make it sound like they had some kind of connection because they shared a face? Family. There was no family in the corps. There was duty, and there was purpose, not kinship. He had nothing to hide. He'd lived a life following orders, doing what he was supposed to, believing in obedience and understanding the consequences of betrayal. That made him a good man, a good soldier. He lifted his head and said, proudly, "My name is Darner."

Skinhead smirked a little, his shoulders easing, as though he'd won some sort of victory. Scarface only gave him a mild look, cocking an eyebrow and tilting his head. This wouldn't be the end of things. Darner braced himself. No, this would just be the beginning. If they were recruiting, they would have to try to convince him, shake his faith in his duty, in his Empire. The question was: How did he want to play this? He could be obstinate, show them his dedication, try to make them feel shame for what they were doing. If he pretended to believe them, join them, would they fall for it? Could he buy time with deception, try to free the others? Take back the ship? If there was even the slightest doubt on their part, they would likely throw him out an airlock. Behind him, he clasped his hands, squeezing them together tightly, his gauntlets grinding against each other as he tried to keep himself calm.

Skinhead shifted again, turning to the side so that his shoulder was leaning against the crate. He kept his arms folded, and that smirk on his mouth. Darner released his clenched hands, then tightened them again, readying himself. "How old are you, Darner?" Skinhead asked.

Starting out slow. Darner resisted the urge to nod, as though watching the first move an opponent made in a game of dejarik. They would have to make a play for the center of the board, much like a soldier would want to find the best ground for a fight. He wasn't much for dejarik, but he understood tactics. The most reliable way to secure victory was to come in from the oblique, to strike when least expected. He must be wary of what these two were scheming, they must be planning on tripping him up somehow. He bit his lip, trying to think of a way to gain control of the situation. He was at an obvious disadvantage, and it was unlikely he could really turn the tables, but he had to try. To at least point out the wrongness of what they were doing. If he found a way to manage more, so much the better. He met Skinhead's eye. "Old enough to fight," he announced, relieved his voice was clear and unshaken.

Scarface leaned forward and shot back, "Old enough to die?"

He was outnumbered, and they were taking advantage of that, each of them supporting the other through the questioning. That was to be expected. He couldn't let himself get boxed in, mentally. They couldn't argue him down until he had his back to a metaphorical wall. He was old enough to see battle; if they were clones with any kind of training, they'd know that. The number of months he'd lived didn't matter. He'd seen almost three years of life, now.

The moment he picked up a blaster and learned to shoot it, he was dangerous. The moment he became dangerous was the moment he became useful to the Empire. That was the moment he began to mean something.

Darner straightened, lifted his chin slightly. He understood his duty, and he declared, firmly, "If that's what I'm ordered to do." Scarface sighed heavily, looked down for a moment as though disappointed. Darner allowed himself a moment of triumph. They must have been hoping he valued his life more, was afraid of losing it. He was no coward, to run and hide. He added, a bit pridefully, "The Empire keeps the peace. I'm a part of that. We're peacekeepers."

Skinhead snorted once and straightened slightly, his eyes shifting momentarily towards the crates he was leaning on. Darner stiffened. Everyone knew that they kept the Emperor's peace. With such a dismissive sound, he seemed to doubt that. It was insulting. They dared to call him brother? Didn't they know how many men fought and died to keep the peace?

Scarface said, very quietly, "Doesn't seem like you're doing much protecting."

Darner glared at him, as blackly as he could. They'd cleaned up that terrorist cell, hadn't they? Put an end to their fear mongering? The good citizens of Gandle Ott were far safer now than they were a few weeks ago. "Stormtroopers keep the peace," he insisted. "Those terrorists you're freeing by imprisoning me and the rest of my squad? They're the ones killing people. Gandle Ott belongs to the Empire. They're trying to violently destroy the rightful government."

Scarface shrugged, leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, then replied casually, "Others might call them freedom fighters. Rebels, fighting an oppressive regime."

Freedom fighters? The terrorists? Is that what they thought of themselves? Darner laughed, then snickered as Scarface's brows raised. "They're deliberately trying to stir up public anger against the Empire," he said, allowing wry amusement to flavor his words. "They're deliberately creating division, just to incite more violence. Their opposing the Emperor's peace is creating the problem in the first place. If they just obeyed, they'd be left alone."

Scarface and Skinhead exchanged glances. Skinhead looked away towards the crates behind him, then sighed. "There are a lot of worlds not too happy with the way Palpatine is treating them," Skinhead said, and Darner bristled, both at his sad tone and his casual disrespect for the Emperor. "Palpatine appointed himself ruler. He created the problem by usurping control of the Republic at the end of the Clone Wars, taking away the rights of the people to choose their own leaders. Why should dissenters be willing to obey if nobody picked him to lead in the first place?"

Now they were simply lying. Darner lowered his head slightly, as though thinking it over. He looked at the top of the crates placed before him, at their dull durasteel surface. The Emperor was chosen by the people to lead them through the Clone Wars. Who else could lead them? He lifted his head and said, calmly, almost gently, "The people did choose him. He gives us all leadership, safety. You're clones, same as I am. We're genetically engineered to be tools of that control."

They had to understand that. They were all clones, they all went through the same training, learned from the same histories. If there was anything they shared through their common DNA, it was a drive towards loyalty and a desire to fight. It was in their blood. He looked at them hopefully, while they looked at him only with disappointment.

Skinhead said, with a strange kind of timbre his voice, as though he were repeating something someone had once asked him. "Do you really believe that? Or is that just what someone taught you to believe?"

Darner sighed. Everyone he knew in the corps believed the same way. How could so many men be wrong? "No," he replied, firm but sad. Of course, these two believed differently. It was a pity. If these two were the leaders of the men who took out their ship, they would have been very useful to the Empire. "It's just what I believe. These are dark times. I can't imagine what the galaxy would be like without proper guidance." He shuddered slightly, and saw Skinhead do the same. Darner looked away, not wanting to watch his gestures mirrored by the other man.

Scarface picked up the questioning again, noticing Skinhead's distraction. Darner met his eyes, unflinching. "If someone rebels, you think they deserve to be literally crushed?" Darner opened his mouth to retort, to remind him that such violence should always be met with superior violence, to eliminate the problem before it grew larger, but Scarface's pause was only to draw another breath. He continued, "I'm not talking about explosives. I'm talking about speaking out. Assembly, free speech, petitioning the government for redress. People who do those things against the Empire disappear. No trial, no jury. They're tortured, kept captive if they're allowed to live, executed if they're not. Do you honestly think that's the system of a fair government? Of a fair leader?"

Darner could only stare at the man. The galaxy was currently under threat by violent insurgents, which followed one of the most turbulent times in history, and he was worried about some sort of petty civilian rights? Trial and jury? Executing criminals as soon as they were found was the only way to keep good, law abiding people safe. _That_ was justice. The safety the Empire provided _preserved_ liberties – it didn't destroy them. Exterminating those who would disrupt the peace kept the galaxy a safer place. Criminals deserved no mercy. They deserved no rights, for they gave them up the moment they began to break the law laid out for them. It was a mercy the Republic fell, ruled as it was by petty, bickering, immoral people. Such democracy was chaotic. Now the galaxy had order, security, stability.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head again, allowing his arms to hang loosely behind him, slack. These men would never understand. They must be flawed in some way, their training incomplete or somehow skewed, for them to end up so wrong-minded. He pitied them, even as he feared what they would soon have to do to him and the rest of his ship's crew. Scarface was waiting patiently for a response, but Skinhead was shaking his head, looking again at the crates beside him, worried.

"Do you honestly think that people should have the right to fight against their own government?" he responded, not allowing himself to plead, but wishing that, if these men really did think of them as _brothers_, they would at least try to understand what he was saying.

Scarface sighed heavily and turned away, catching Skinhead's attention. He shook his head, and Scarface turned back to Darner, sighing a second time, then lifting his wrist to speak into his comlink. "Fives, could you come take our friend back to his cell?"

So that was the end of it. Darner shuddered. Back to his cell, to wait for whatever happened next, more intense interrogation or execution. He felt ill, his gut suddenly churning with apprehension. Such an ignominious end, this. The steady stomp of feet approaching through the hull breach announced the return of his guard, who, upon entering, paused, looking at Scarface. Scarface shook his head once, and the guard's body shifted, as though some new weight had been added, causing him to slump his shoulders. After a moment, he walked forward again, grasped Darner's elbow, and pulled him to his feet.

As Darner was led away, there was a series of shifting sounds behind him, and Scarface's voice called out, coolly, "Darner?" The guard stopped, and Darner turned back to see both Scarface and Skinhead standing, Scarface with his arms folded over his chest. "If you see a red-haired woman around here, I wouldn't repeat anything you just said in front of her," Scarface told him.

The guard sucked in a breath at the words, and the grip on his arm suddenly became tense. A moment later, he was wrenched roughly back towards the exit, then yanked forward. Darner nearly tripped, his feet fumbling over each other as he struggled to stay upright.

In those few moments he was looking back, he saw something peculiar; a small, alien woman with fierce, striped horns and orange skin stepped out from behind the crates. The white facial markings patterned on her face made her appear almost feral, animalistic, and decidedly primitive.

As she silently stepped up beside Skinhead, she met his eyes. He did not like her look.

It was one of pity.

* * *

Rex and Cody sat across from each other in the galley of the _Drake_.

Untouched mugs of caf sat before them on the table, slowly growing cold. The day had been long, and though they had successfully stormed an Imperial ship and rescued the small group of resistance fighters living on Gandle Ott, the interrogations did not go nearly as well as hoped.

Ahsoka placed her hands lightly on Rex's shoulders, gently rubbing them. The muscles in his neck were knotty with tension, his shoulders rounded inward, displaying his disappointment with the day's events. She sighed. Nothing but time, and perhaps a more successful mission, would allay the worries, the hurt, the frustration. Rex lifted a hand and placed in on top of one of hers, squeezing it lightly as though to reassure her he was alright. She responded by sliding her fingers between his and squeezing back.

Each stormtrooper brought into the cargo bay for questioning remained doggedly loyal to the Empire. Most were obstinate, sullenly glaring at Cody and Rex, refusing to even acknowledge their questions. A few only swore violently, cursing them all as traitors and criminals. She held out hope for a few minutes with the last man, the one who willingly gave them his name – Darner. She sensed _pity_ in him, and if _pity_, she hoped perhaps _sympathy_ and enough open mindedness to at least listen to their words. But as the interview continued, she came to realize how badly skewed his sense of integrity was, how determined his sense of self-righteousness, how rigid and unrelenting his distorted sense of justice. He, like the others, lacked any kind of sympathy or willingness to look upon others with compassion or understanding. There was no _mercy_ in such a man.

Standing behind Rex, she looked down, following the stretch of his arm resting on the table, then out the narrow window. Could such a man as Darner, born fifteen or even ten years earlier, under different circumstances, have been a different man? A better man? It was true that the Republic began the cycle, creating the clones in the first place and using them as soldiers in a war, but it was the Empire that so willingly took their existence to its terrible end. To the Empire, these men were mere clones, irrelevant people of no consequence, simple tools used for cruel abuses against humanity and nothing more. In turn, to survive without going mad, Darner and the other stormtroopers allowed themselves to be indoctrinated by the characteristics of the Empire. Darner and the stormtroopers were as alike to Rex and Cody as she, as a Jedi, was to a Sith.

She looked at Rex's bent shoulders, and at Cody's tired face. Her grip on Rex's hand tightened. She was glad for what she had, though at times she wished they could do more. She sighed, reminding herself again to be patient.

"It's not right," Rex said, his voice sounding rough in the quiet of the galley.

Cody glanced up, then away. He reached for his mug of cool caf and held it in his hands. "It's more mercy than they'd show us."

"I know," Rex responded. "But it still doesn't make it right."

Cody took a sip of his caf, frowning down at the lukewarm surface as he swallowed the bitter drink. Ahsoka turned again to the window, at the round, green-brown surface of Yavin IV. It was habitable, though uninhabited. They'd taken the stormtroopers' helmets and comlinks, leaving them on the surface of the moon with blasters and a set of vibroblades. They would survive.

It wasn't right. It was also more mercy than they would have been shown, if their positions were reversed. They could not risk letting the stormtroopers go, to return to the Empire with knowledge of their group's existence, and an interest in finding a group of rebellious clone soldiers to make example of. They could not risk being tracked back to Alderaan, back to home. Marooning them on Yavin IV was the only choice they had, save for killing the men, and none of them had the heart to do so.

Rex, Cody and the others perhaps needed some time to themselves. The stormtroopers were brothers, and though they were not dead, they were still lost. The two men before her were filled with the bitter ache of _mourning_. Ahsoka patted Rex's shoulders, sliding her fingers out of his as she turned away. She'd call Behri up to the bridge in a few minutes, to have her review jump calculations. Until then, she had a promise to keep.

Ahsoka walked to the bridge, the doors sliding open to permit her entrance. She slipped into the pilot's chair, and opened up an encrypted channel.

She did, with this, acknowledge the establishment of a certain trust. The last few months had proven their alliance. This rescue mission, requested by Ventress, was the first time her old enemy had asked for assistance. Ventress would not put herself in any kind of debt if she did not mean to truly honor their bargain, and continue to work on their shared side. Ahsoka would, in turn, uphold her end of the agreement.

She wrote a single word, closed her eyes, and sent it out into space: _Tatooine_.

* * *

Darner is an OC. As I mentioned back in chapter 7, hawkers and darners are types of dragonflies. Just following through with my naming scheme.

This was a very interesting chapter to write, and I hope you enjoyed it – or it at least made you think. According to how he was raised and what he was taught, Darner's not meant to be a 'bad' man. More misled? His thoughts and opinions are not meant to be black and white. I was having a hard time writing the chapter from either Rex or Cody's perspectives, and it didn't really flow right until I flipped sides. It made for an interesting exploration of a clone stormtrooper's psychology, and I really liked writing it.

Around the time I was plotting out this chapter, I was reading a book called _Little Brother_ by Cory Doctorow. (Highly recommended, btw!) There's a particularly powerful scene about midway through the book involving a heated discussion of the 1st Amendment, the right of revolution, and what one person sees as oppression, another may see as peacekeeping. It very much sparked off my thinking about this chapter. Another book that strongly influenced this chapter was Azar Nafisi's _Reading Lolita in Tehran_ (also highly recommended!).

lol, can you tell I was taking an intellectual freedom seminar when I drafted this chapter or what?

Anyway, thoughts are much appreciated!

And as always, many thanks to all of you who took the time to read and review - **doctor anthony, KatiaSwift, Christina, DoubleEO, BetaReject, rabbitwriter**, **3LW00D**, **BleachBoy95**, **littlelionluvr **and **ThoseWereTheDays**! Much love to you all!

~Queen


	11. For I Am Made of Snow

_What Any of it is Worth_

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* * *

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Chapter 11. For I Am Made of Snow

* * *

The sand slipped between her fingers, and was borne away on the wind.

If she breathed deeply enough, Ventress could almost smell the scent of salt in the air, though she suspected it was merely the knowledge that this place, eons ago, had been smothered in salt water. All liquid long since boiled away under the pair of brutal suns, the Great Chott Salt Flat stretched in a tawny expanse in nearly every direction, until it met the long blue seam of the sky.

Tatooine was a parched world. The grit got into everything, and even the slightest of breezes could create serpents of sand, slithering across her previous footfalls. She did not appreciate having to sit through a sandstorm a week ago; communications were knocked down for kilometers around Anchorhead, and she was trapped in a shoddy inn with raucous locals, of which many seemed to think the storm was a good opportunity to get roaring drunk. Karking idiots, the lot of them, and smelly too. She rolled grains of sand between the pads of her fingertips, frowning slightly. She stood, brushing her hands on her pants, then pulled out her pair of macrobinoculars, setting them to her eyes to look at the little moisture farm.

Tracking on the planet was next to impossible. The endless dunes eagerly erased any footfalls, the sharp rocks left little trace. The Hutts that ran the planet had little care of recordkeeping beyond their own profits and trade. There was no real local government to keep records of births, deaths, purchases. No one kept track of free folk, of what they did or where they went. Tatooine was a wilderness of disorganization, petty thieves, and powerful crime lords.

The brat, Tano, had not lied about Kenobi's location. The process of searching was frustrating, but the choice made sense, in its way. The Empire had little to no interest in a planet like Tatooine. It had no resources of value, sparse population, no purpose but to serve the interests of the Hutt syndicates. A useless little world on the fringe of civilization, its lack of structure serving to confuse and frustrate anyone who may come seeking out those who hid there.

A good place to hide; she could not have chosen better. Still, though it was an imminently practical location for disappearing from the Empire, the question remained: Why? Why this particular planet, and not any one of a dozen other Outer Rim planets that were equally worthless to Imperial interests? A more comfortable planet, where water did not have to be scraped from the air and your throat was not left raw and dry after days of walking through Tatooine's cities, your skin not threatening to burn red from walking under its' suns?

Kenobi would not select such a place at random. There was a reason he chose this place, above others. He also needed to be close enough to people to live; water must be purchased, food must be purchased, basic staples that could not be farmed on such an arid planet must be purchased. Soap and grain and power cells and medicines. He had to be within traveling distance of one of the dirty little towns.

A figure emerged from above the lip of the homestead's pit, then another, smaller one. Ventress pressed her lips thin, watching the boy with the mop of yellow hair running around the woman excitedly. In the end, it was the boy who led her here.

Kenobi was a sentimental fool. She'd spent days trying to trace him, find any evidence of him. When nothing was found, she turned to searching out names of other Jedi who may have accompanied him, those who he might go to for sanctuary, or anyone who he was familiar enough with that may have ties to the planet. On the third day of searching outdated, poorly kept school databanks for records involving Kenobi's obnoxious padawan, she'd found a hit. A boy with the matching last name of _Skywalker_ had been enrolled in a school near to Anchorhead, by a man with the last name of _Lars_; no further information was given, or was so badly corrupted within the computer system it was irretrievable. She finished her slice of the database by erasing the boy's name. Skywalker wasn't exactly a common surname, and the boy was likely some sort of relative, probably the child of some unknown sibling of Anakin Skywalker, now living with an aunt and uncle for whatever reason. He was possibly even the Lars' woman's brat, assuming she changed her name upon marriage or remarriage.

A few days worth of discreet observations proved that Kenobi was not a regular visitor at the homestead. A few more days failed to reveal any other records with the name Skywalker within ten years. She doubted going further back would do her any good for her current search, and didn't particularly want to spend additional days sifting through clunky old databanks in pursuit of irrelevant information. She was after a living Kenobi, not a ghost of Skywalker. She considered that the boy and the family were a fluke, that Kenobi was nowhere near here and she was on the wrong trail, but it _felt_ right. She had hunted before. She knew the feeling of being close to her quarry though she could not see it yet. She had that feeling now.

Ventress lowered the macrobinoculars, returned them to their holster on the side of her speeder bike.

She would head towards the Jundland Wastes again today, to continue her sweeps. If Kenobi was within fifty kilometers of this location, she would find him, sooner or later.

She pulled a pair of goggles down over her eyes and a scarf up over her mouth and nose, swung a leg over the bike and put it into gear, its engine coughing sand out of the exhaust, then rumbled to life.

Ventress turned and headed west.

* * *

The house sat atop a hill, several meters above the ground level.

It was not indefensible. A long walk to the door, placed on higher ground, would force unwelcome visitors to move uphill. Narrow windows towards the front provided a view. A crevasse on the western slope provided defense on the side and rear. As she moved forward, she passed newly blooming funnel flowers, their deep purple petals stretching upward and out to collect warm air moving across the garden's surface. Razor moss was creeping up the sides of the house, turning the muted brown of the sandstone a pale green-silver. Kenobi had apparently taken up gardening. Ventress arched a brow, keeping to the path until she reached the door.

She kept her mind calm, her intentions peaceful, her signature dampened. She wanted to meet Obi-Wan Kenobi, not the sharp end of his lightsaber.

It was the garden that drew her attention during the search. Scrub and bits of vegetation clung to cooler, shaded corners where moisture may collect, scattered sporadically on the bare rock of the Jundland Wastes, but here it grew with the deliberate cultivation of a sentient's hand. She resisted an odd urge to pick one of the purple blossoms. They were not the most beautiful plants she had ever seen, but they were quite pretty for a desert succulent, and not particularly prickly, either. She could appreciate something that strove to thrive in such conditions. It would, however, look ridiculous to knock on the door while sniffing flowers, though, and left the plants alone. She must be growing soft to even consider such a thing. The thought made her scowl.

Ventress frowned at the door for a moment. It was sturdy, pitted and worn from local sandstorms, and made of solid durasteel. She took a deep breath through her nose and then out. He would not be expecting her. Judging by the location, he never expected anyone, least of all a former enemy. She braced herself, lifted a hand, and knocked with firm deliberation. There was no use in appearing timid or nervous.

A moment passed, then there was the soft sound of shuffling on the other side of the door, followed by the click of unlocking. It opened.

He had aged. Thin streaks of light grey were tangled in the hair on his temples and mingled with the brighter ginger of his beard. A few new lines were etched around his eyes, and there was a worry line carved neatly between his brows, now furrowed deeply with astonishment and concern at her appearance. Still, in spite of the signs of time passing, he was much the same, at least on the outside. The same hairy head, bright eyes and twist of the mouth she remembered from what felt like a lifetime ago. He was not broken, in the way so many seemed to be broken, under the strain of the galaxy's current political circumstance.

To herself, she admitted it was a relief. To herself, she also admitted her annoyance. Kenobi was a powerful Jedi, an infernal do-gooder, who before always seemed to have a constant need to save the galaxy. What in the name of all the hells was he doing holed up here?

She lifted her chin and commented, coolly, "So. You _are_ alive."

His astonishment flicked to outright shock, then settled into a more familiar feeling. _Amusement_. His brows rose, and his lips curved slightly upward as he took in her presence, lingering on her face and the changes that time also wrought upon her. "As are you, my dear."

Ventress snorted, looking vaguely past him, feigning disinterest. The banter was reminiscent of the old days, of the running commentary they always seemed to exchange during a fight, but was less barbed. It was a strange, though not entirely unwelcome, change. Kenobi made a small, light chuckle, then angled himself to the side, gesturing towards the interior of the home, inviting her in.

The house was small, and cool from shade. The anteroom opened into a small living area, with an equally tiny kitchenette to one side. It was a home for one person, spartan in appearance with little decoration and only functional, simple furnishings filling it. It smelled of plants and wind, the windows cracked open to let in air.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked, his arms folded in front of him and a continuing smile on his mouth. She shrugged. If he needed a moment to collect himself and play host, she would allow him to have it. It gave her a moment to get her bearings as well, now that she was here.

He moved to the kitchen area and sounds of flowing water and pots clanging were briefly heard. He was putting a kettle onto a stove, moving with familiarity. She sat herself at a small round table, put her elbow on it, and her chin in her hand. She met his surreptitious glances squarely, lifting a brow as though to challenge him to speak. He merely ignored the challenge and continued to prepare the tea, both his _curiosity_ and _amusement_ growing as his sense of surprise faded. He seemed content enough to wait until he was ready.

The kettle began to screech, and he took it off the flame, pouring the steaming water into a pot and adding dry, aromatic leaves to it before bringing it and a pair of cups to the table. He set the pot in the center, a cup before her, and himself across.

"I wasn't expecting visitors. How did you find me?"

She leaned back, removing her chin from her hand. "I've struck an alliance with Tano," she admitted. Kenobi's brows rose, and he looked pleased.

"Ahsoka is still alive, then."

"As of a few months ago, yes."

He looked at her, and she felt him reach out in the Force, running his mind lightly, unobtrusively, against hers. She sniffed, kept her barriers up, but did not reject him or otherwise react, allowing him to test her. She supposed, for all the times she'd tried to kill him, he should at least know she genuinely no longer wished him violence or death. It was not unlike meeting Tano again, the first time, as she tried to figure out exactly what was going on. Tano never fully gave up her sense of _wariness_, even with the trust they'd slowly established, however reluctantly. Kenobi, though, seemed _thoughtful_, then _pleased_, and eventually _relieved_ and even _happy_.

"You've turned from the Dark Side," he said, stating the obvious.

She gave him a narrow look. He was almost too pleased, and it bordered on the self-satisfied. Irritating. She reached behind her back and drew one of her lightsabers, igniting it, letting the blood-red point stretch towards the ceiling. He leaned backward slightly at the display, but otherwise did not react. There was no _anger_ about her, only a desire to clarify. "I am no Jedi, either." She flicked the blade off and returned it to its clip at the small of her back, tucked beneath a grey cloak. "Nor do I have a desire to be."

If the words were bitter, he did not comment on it, and instead reached for the teapot, lifting it and pouring her a cup. It came out a glistening amber color. "An alliance with Ahsoka?" he asked, moving to pour himself a drink.

She lifted her cup and took a sip. It was slightly bitter, but with a hint of floral sweetness and fragrance to it. "She seems to be under the impression she can save everyone." Ventress snorted and took a second sip, half closing her eyes to let the tea roll over her tongue. "The Sith taught me to destroy, so I teach others to destroy. It's mutually beneficial, in its way."

She gave him a moment to puzzle it out, that she was training resistance fighters. Tano would not be working with an uncontrollable terrorist. She hid a smile behind the curve of her teacup. He did not radiate _approval_, but rather a grim sort of _understanding_. She set the cup down. "There is no place for Jedi in the galaxy as it is," she told him pointedly, "but there are those who would appreciate such help." She waited, wondering again at his reasoning for staying here.

He paused, looking at the tea, then sipped at it. "Yes, I imagine so."

That was no answer. She frowned at him, trying to understand. Something kept him here, in spite of it all. She could only speculate. Tano was the only Jedi, other than herself and Kenobi, that she knew of still in existence, though it was possible a handful of others had slipped through the Empire's grasp during the chaotic aftermath of the Republic's fall. Still, between herself, Tano, and Kenobi, the only one who seemed to be doing nothing was Kenobi. It was peculiar. She gave training. Tano ran around playing hero and rescuing children and clones. Tatooine was a backwater, with no physical resources to protect, certainly none important enough to warrant a Jedi of Kenobi's caliber to watch them.

Ventress compressed her lips into a thin line, thinking briefly of the boy on the moisture farm. Force sensitivity did not run exclusively in families, but it was a tendency. If Skywalker's family, the boy, the Lars couple, or any other blood relatives in the area were undiscovered Force-sensitives, then Kenobi's presence would be warranted. It was, however, pure speculation, and she did not have enough information to make a better guess. It did, however, fit his personality, and align with Tano's activities.

She prodded a little, to test the theory. "What have you to gain, here? You've grown soft."

He was swift in hiding it, but she had seen his looks of annoyance before, when they would battle and she pulled off a maneuver that cut slightly closer than he was comfortable with, though still managed to evade. His voice was hard when he replied, "Is that why you're here? To convince me to return?"

He knew perfectly well she'd never ask for such a thing, especially not directly. He was trying to alter the flow of the conversation, turn it to her reasoning for coming and away from his reasoning for staying. It did not confirm her guess, but it did show her how strongly he felt he needed to remain. Interesting. She rolled her eyes, as though bored. "Hardly." She drained the teacup, then reached for the pot and poured herself a second cup. Kenobi watched her warily, then curiously.

"Why are you here, Asajj?"

She set the teapot down, and slid the cup closer to her, then gave him a long, searching look. He would not leave this world, for whatever reason, Force-sensitives or not. A part of her still prated at the thought of wanting his help. Time inevitably changed a person, and though she wanted to believe she was not so different than the person she was when the Clone Wars ended, she knew her resemblance to Dooku's apprentice was now mostly superficial, reduced to mannerisms, pride, and a refusal to openly side with the remaining Jedi, who she had loathed so deeply and so long. She had learned control, and though that control was sometimes tenuous, it existed nonetheless. Her years away from Rattatak and away from the Sith showed her people who were much like she was, when she was a much younger person. Victims of abuses of power and cruelty. She'd once used power and cruelty to overcome her enemies, to take her vengeance against perceived wrongs. It had only earned her betrayal.

Power and cruelty could not be overcome with more power and cruelty.

He was waiting, patiently, meeting her gaze. She looked away, uncomfortable, tightening her control over her emotions. Tipping her hand and letting him see exactly how unsettled she was by her need to see him would be nothing but embarrassing. He was alive, and well, and whole. That was all she wanted to know.

It was, perhaps, not all she _wanted_. Confrontations with him were always charged, volatile. He challenged her, dared her to be stronger, to be more than what she was. He was infuriating, and fascinating. She never understood exactly why, but he saw something in her more clearly than she did herself. These past few years, she was beginning to discover what it was. In that way, he reminded her of Ky Narec.

Kenobi, though, was not Master Narec. A wicked little impulse suggested that she drag him into whatever room he kept his sleeping couch, and suggest a few of the more personal things she wanted from him, but in the end, that also was not what she really wanted from Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Her hand tightened on the cup, and she frowned down at the amber tea. There were any number of excuses she could offer him, excuses that would be reasonable and believable. She did not want to lie, but she also could not quite bring herself to admit the truth. She grimaced.

Kenobi said, very quietly, "You're always welcome here, Asajj."

She looked at him again. His tea was sitting before him, steaming slightly. His forearms were resting on the tabletop, and his head was tilted slightly to the side. He felt open, welcoming.

He gave her his_ acceptance. _

The kindness was almost a blow, and she shuddered once as though struck, quickly moving to swallow her tea as though her shiver were only a part of the motion of drinking. Even when she'd stood squarely in the Dark, he'd always somehow believed in her. He could see the results of that faith, now that she was sitting here before him. She was stronger for it.

Master Narec was her teacher, the closest thing she had to a hero. Obi-Wan was the closest thing she had to a friend.

She struggled for a moment before managing, roughly, "Thank you."

She looked determinedly out the window, at the purple funnel flowers growing in the garden outside, nestled beside the razor moss. If she had turned her head to look at him again, she would have seen him smile.

* * *

If anyone is wondering what a title about snow is doing in a chapter set on a desert planet, it's because I frequently write while listening to music. For this chapter, I spent a lot of time listening to the song _Say It's Not So_, by the Mediaeval Baebes, which is adapted from a poem by Queen Elizabeth I. The lyrics have always reminded me of Ventress, oddly. (_I freeze and yet am always burned/Since from myself again I turn/I love and yet am forced to hate/I seem stark mute; inside I prate_) I've always liked the image the song gives – that snow, though cold, is also soft.

I'm curious to see how the relationship between Obi-Wan and Ventress plays out in the Clone Wars series. At the time of establishing _Said the Joker_ as a fic-universe, and drafting _What Any of it is Worth_, only season 2 of TCW had aired. With the recent airing of season 3 episodes, this story has become AU in regards to Ventress' history.

I have primarily based Ventress' storyline in here off of the comic version, since TCW is still ongoing. Her betrayal by Dooku has recently aired in season 3 of TCW, but was done quite differently in the comics. In the comic version, Obi-Wan persists in believing Ventress is misled rather than truly evil. In the end, she turns from the Dark Side, in part because of that belief in her.

According to the Wookieepedia, Obi-Wan would collect seeds during his walks and plant them in his garden, in memory of Ventress (who, it turns out, isn't dead).

Also, many, many thanks to everyone who commented on chapter 10! I really put a lot of effort and thought into that chapter (I even nagged one of my RL friends into beta-ing for me!), so I particularly appreciate the feedback! **doctor anthony, DoubleEO, Kaprikorn, almostinsane, KatiaSwift, 3LW00D, BleachBoy, outlaw hunter, ThoseWereTheDays, littlelionluvr, rabbitwriter, Clayto **(Browncoats!), **reulte** and **Sev6911**.

We're almost at the end of the fic. Two more chapters to go!

Til then,

~Queen


	12. Always With the End

_What Any of it is Worth_

_

* * *

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Chapter 12. Always With the End

* * *

Two sets of eyes peered over the countertop.

One was a pair of eyestalks. The other pair was accompanied by two cream colored lekku.

Waxer grinned and turned towards the oven with a tray of sliced topato wedges that would, in about a half hour, be a part of dinner. By the time he turned back around, the eyes had finished surfacing over the counter to reveal the full heads of Roo-Roo and Neaera, both of them peering hopefully towards the sticky sweet rice balls Nura was in the middle of shaping, rolling them between her palms and then placing them in a bowl for serving later. Waxer didn't need to look at Nura's face to know she was resisting a grin as well.

It was becoming a habit with Roo over the last couple months. She was, according to Nura, hitting her early-adolescent growth spurt, and apparently needed food every other hour to help fuel it. The Gungan girl was steadily taking on the lankiness of her species, and her ear flaps seemed to have gone from chin-length to brushing her shoulders within a week. The bright pink of her skin was darkening to something rosier, with a bit of sepia dappling across her arms, the contrasting hue reminiscent of Nura's coloring.

Roo was legitimately hungry.

Neaera was just turning into a glutton.

"Mama," Roo whined, in a particularly plaintive voice, "Can Isa please have something to eat?" She set the long bill of her chin down on top of the counter while making her eyes as wide, sweet and innocent as she possibly could. "Isa'm so hungry! Isa haven't eaten in hours!"

Nura chuckled, her ear flaps twitching in amusement. "That's right. Yousa not been eatin' since lunchtime, like everybody else."

"But Mama," Roo whined again, stretching her hands out towards the sweet rice, "Isa'm _so hungry_."

"Yousa gonna be eatin' all the vegetables at dinner?"

Roo whined again, this time in protest, but nodded. Nura handed her a rice ball, which Roo promptly began to stuff into her mouth, chewing happily and, once she got down a mouthful and a swallow, managed, "Thanks, Mama!" before clambering up onto one of the barstools to actually sit at the counter and finish the snack.

Waxer waited a moment. Neaera would ask him, that much was given. He always tried to be fair to the kids, and not show favoritism, but it was hard with Neaera. She reminded him too much of the first non-clone youngling he'd ever spent more than five minutes with, a brave little Twi'lek girl named Numa. Neaera always managed to wheedle more out of him than he intended, and she was smart enough to realize that when she wanted something, Waxer-_nerra_ was her best bet of getting it. She was currently going through a phase when she wanted to idolize the older children. If Roo was hungry and wanted food, then Neaera also was hungry and wanted food.

Roo was currently chomping on a rice ball.

"Can I have one too?" Neaera begged, ducking under the edge of the counter, then pulling herself up onto one of the stools so that she was at approximately the same height as Roo. Neaera looked at Roo, then at her own position, then squirmed around until she was sitting on her knees, making her completely level with the older girl. "Please?"

Waxer opened the conservator and pulled out a carton of blue milk. "You will spoil your dinner." Neaera promptly opened her mouth to protest this great injustice, pointing a finger at Roo. Before she could get a word out, Waxer interrupted her. "And when you're going through your growth spurt, you can have an extra rice ball too. But you're not yet."

"But it's not fair!" Neaera complained, pouting and folding her arms in a sulk.

"Yousa won't eat dinner if yousa eat now," Roo explained to her, puffing up with all the great wisdom and maturity of a ten year old. Neaera scowled at her, as best she could. It was mostly just a bigger pout and a wrinkled nose. Waxer tried not to laugh. Roo licked her fingers, then hopped down from the stool. "Thanks, Mama!" she exclaimed, and Nura waved her off as Roo ran back towards the living room.

Neaera continued to sulk for several long seconds, watching Nura roll more rice between her palms. She took in a great breath, looking at Nura, who merely looked at her, quirked an eyestalk in a particularly skeptical way, and waited. Neaera closed her mouth again and pouted some more, apparently deciding Nura was a lost cause. Waxer chuckled, turning around to begin pulling glasses out of one of the cabinet.

"_Please_ can I have a rice ball, Waxer-papa?"

He almost dropped the pair of glasses in his hand, fumbling for a moment before he recovered his grip and whipped around to see Neaera kneeling on the stool, leaning over the back of the seat hopefully, apparently having decided to give it one last try. There was no deception on her face, and no real sound of scheming in her voice. Just the more ordinary sound of begging.

He looked at Nura, who had paused in her work to look at him. She seemed startled as well, her ear flaps arching high and her head tilted in a curious kind of way. They exchanged a glance, then turned towards Neaera, who was still in her pleading position over the back of the stool, appearing hopeful.

None of the children were his. Not biologically, at any rate. But despite that, they were, in a way, _his_. He'd been off world only a couple of times since arriving; he and Nura ran the place. Echo helped, and was their teacher in many respects, but it was to him and to Nura they went to when they were hurt or hungry or wanted a _parent_.

Only Neaera called him and the other clones _brother_ in Twi'leki, affixing the title to their names.

Waxer set the glasses down on the counter beside him, then asked, carefully, "Waxer-_papa_? That's new. Why 'papa'?"

Neaera's lekku twitched quizzically, and she looked at Nura, who simply folded her arms in response. She returned to Waxer, still seeming a little puzzled by the question. "Well, Roo calls Nura-mama, 'Mama', so, shouldn't you be Waxer-papa?" At the continued silence of the adults, she began to look worried. "Is that okay?"

Somehow, he kept his voice steady, letting a smile surface. "That's fine, Neaera."

She seemed uncertain for a moment, but with his continued smile, she eased. "Can I please have something to eat?" she asked again, reverting to her original question, still slightly hesitant from the continued quiet of the adults.

Waxer looked at Nura again, who shrugged, then turned, scooped up a small portion of rice, rolled it, and held it out. Neaera, still looking at Waxer, didn't notice.

"Just this once," Waxer told her, nodding at Nura. Neaera turned, delighted, and snatched the ball out of Nura's hands. He added, quickly, "And you still need to eat your dinner."

"I will!" she exclaimed, munching down and scrambling off the chair. "Thank you!" Still stuffing herself, she tore off in the direction Roo went, stubby lekku bouncing behind her. He watched her go, and barely realized Nura was stepping up beside him until she placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked down at her, still a little stunned by both Neaera's proclamation and her reasoning. Nura smiled up at him, patted him on the shoulder twice and waited.

After a moment, he was able to return the look. He shook his head to clear it. He was obviously letting the kids make him sentimental. It was hard not to be pleased, though. He chuckled slightly, and Nura patted him one final time, then turned back to her part of the dinner preparations.

He picked the glasses up again. The younglings would all be looking for food soon enough. He'd get the table set.

As he moved to the dining room, he mused aloud, though entirely to himself, "_Papa_."

* * *

Alderaan had no moon.

It made the night darker, and the stars brighter, despite the light emanating from the town below. Greenish white lights twinkled as frequently as the stars did, lighting the little valley in a pale, almost peppermint hue. The effect was as calming as it was pretty. The shapes of further hills and forest could be seen beyond the wash of the light.

Suisen's apartment was poised on a hill, on the third floor, providing a high enough vantage point to enjoy the view thoroughly. She reached out, a long stemmed wineglass in her hand, and offered it to Echo. He accepted it, taking the stem between his fingers and twirling it slightly, watching the claret liquor swirl. Suisen raised her own glass to her lips and took a sip, then turned and leaned against the edge of the balcony, much as Echo was doing, her arm slightly brushing his, standing shoulder to shoulder.

He fiddled with the glass, then took a drink. It took most of the morning to take the transport to the outskirts of Belleau-a-Lir, then most of the latter part of the evening to make it back to town. Suisen's parents were not at all what he expected; they were as outgoing as Suisen was reserved, as artistic as she was professional. It took more thought and consideration to see their influences on her. Their house was covered in art they'd made, each piece done with a careful eye towards the details of its subject. He saw the same kind of observational skills in his girlfriend. Also in her parents was the same kind of wry amusement that she seemed to have for the world. He felt welcome there, if a little embarrassed. Suisen's mother fussed over him a great deal, constantly plying him with food and drink, and trying to pry out of him exactly how serious he was about her daughter.

Suisen had met Waxer and Nura many times during the course of their relationship. She'd met the children. He'd never taken her up to the house, and he knew that she was aware he was keeping something from her. It left an awkward gap in the relationship, particularly now that she had taken him home with her for a visit. During the trip back, he was painfully aware that she had invited him into her family, and that he not yet returned the favor. Not really.

In the days leading up to the family visit, he'd concluded it was time to finally tell her the truth of what he was, of what he was doing on Alderaan. He'd considered doing so before, many times. He often felt an unpleasant patina of guilt, at the keeping of such secrets. Time had allowed their relationship to grow stronger. She said she loved him, always whispered it to him in the dark when they were twined around each other and catching their breaths. Having someone to spend time with, to come home to after a mission, to wake up next to on cool Alderaanian mornings – he loved her, but was afraid of her rejection or fear of what he was; Behri was the only precedent Echo could think of, and though she and Fives were now quite happily amusing everyone at the house with their mooning over each other, her initial reaction was clearly fear and distrust. The thought of Suisen turning away from him in such a way was painful. Her whispered declarations were too preciously held, and he worried about their fragility.

He was not quite so worried about revealing the younglings' Force sensitivity. She cared for the children, even if she was often tired, exasperated and rather relieved to be done chasing them around at the end of the day. She had no love of the Empire or their ideals. On evenings when they flipped channels on the holonet, catching the news, her critiques of Imperial policy were sharp and negative. Her commentary on Palpatine's propaganda overriding balanced news was scathing. Her reaction to the relocation of all colleges of law and politics to Imperial Center could only be described as disgusted.

Her dislike for the Empire was intellectual, not personal. She had not lived through Imperial abuse, as Behri had. Her opinions were, so far as he could tell, fairly common among the Alderaani. Peace loving people who immersed themselves in art and literature and beauty had little love for violence and hate and destruction. No decent person would turn against a group of persecuted children, forced into hiding by a cruel dictator.

It was her rejection of _him_ that he feared.

Suisen nudged him with her hip, smiling a little. "My parents weren't _that_ terrifying, were they?" she asked, eyes filled with mirth. Her face was cast half in light, half in shadow, the brighter half lit from the lamp in the living room beyond the glass door and a string of fairy lights strung along the overhang of her balcony. She turned to face him, leaning an elbow on the balcony rail and taking another swallow of wine. She cocked an eyebrow, expectant.

Echo managed a smile, then grew serious, quickly quaffing the wine and setting the glass on the little table nearby, which held the bottle. "I need to tell you something," he said.

A slow smile spread across her face, and it was hidden only momentarily behind the rim of her glass as she took a thoughtful drink. Then, playfully, she asked, "Are you going to finally tell me the big secret?" At his continued sober expression, her laughter faded slightly. She leaned against the rail, patient.

As the months had passed as they'd grown closer, he'd considered how to tell her, running it through his head dozens of times. None of the little practice speeches he'd considered ever seemed to feel right. They were always perfect fantasies of her reaction, except for when they were nightmares of her rejection. A pleased, relaxed, vaguely tipsy Suisen wasn't one of his usual anticipated scenarios. "About the kids," he began, trying to choose his words carefully.

She took a sip of her drink, her eyes flickering with sudden amusement. His mouth went dry and he tried again. "The kids. There's been a lot of immigration to Alderaan since the Clone Wars started. It's safe here." He shifted uncomfortably, having a hard time looking at Suisen, who was smiling widely, almost to the point of laughing.

At his discomfort, she leaned to the side and set her wineglass beside his, then put her hands on his shoulders, comfortingly. "They're Jedi children, aren't they?" When his head shot up with alarm, she gave him a sympathetic smile. "I see the older ones every week. None of them said anything, don't worry," she reassured, smiling gently. "But I watch them," she continued, turning more serious. "They don't behave like ordinary children their age. Roo-Roo knows things she shouldn't, sometimes before they happen. Rithron has an unusual interest in sword fighting, even for a boy his age. Thoosa has odd interests in history, and once I saw what she was trying to research, I was worried." She chuckled, watching his expression change from horror at discovery to shock upon hearing her reasoning. "Maera and Temese have an unhealthy interest in reading about military history and genocide, particularly for children."

"How long have you…?"

She shook her head. "Suspected. With the Jedi Purge, and the number of refugees and exiles Alderaan has taken in since the beginning of the Clone Wars, a group of orphans would not appear unusual. You keep the younger ones at home, where they can't make mistakes and reveal themselves. It's improbable that there'd be a group of Jedi training up in the mountains, but," she smiled faintly, "not impossible, and there was no other logical explanation, unlikely as it was."

He could never decide if her ability to observe and deduce was something he loved about her, or something that drove him absolutely crazy. She was never quite smug about her reasoning skills, but she always seemed to find it deeply amusing when she could confound someone. She rarely managed it with him, and she was almost sparkling now that she had guessed at something so important, serious as it was. He was torn between astonishment, horror, respect for her intelligence, and simply wanting to laugh.

He laughed. It was not a long or deep laugh, and finished with a nervous, high sound, as he still had one more thing to tell her. The next part would not be so easy. "There's more."

She chuckled and asked, teasingly, "What, are you hiding a Jedi Knight up there too?"

He paled. She blinked, then her eyes widened, and her expression grew more concerned, her focus sharpening with the new development. She had guessed at the children, and was prepared for that revelation. More was unexpected and unprepared for. A Jedi - a grown, trained Jedi - was considered a wanted felon by the Empire, and anyone abetting a Jedi was considered a criminal as well. "Echo, what is going on?" She did not pull away from him, but her hands slid off his shoulders to hang at her sides.

He ran a hand over his face and looked away from her for a moment. Explaining Ahsoka would be a third thing, and it was tied into his being a clone. Her surviving was the reason why he was now on Alderaan, a deserter, and not still a member of the Imperial 501st or dead. It would be easiest to cover both issues at the same time; get it all out at once, as simply as possible. He could give details later, if she didn't toss him out of her apartment.

Cautiously, he began, "When the Purge began, I was on a jungle planet with my brothers."

She took that in with a blink of the eyes, a flicker about them the only evidence of her registering the plural term. As far as she knew, he had only one brother: Waxer. She was frowning a little as she watched him. He continued, "The order to kill the Jedi went out. The Captain hesitated. One of the shinies got in a shot against our Commander."

He knew she had put the pieces together then, because she flinched and took a half step backward, her mouth rounding into a circle as she breathed in sharply. He hurried ahead, finishing, "She wasn't dead. The Captain reacted badly. Fives and I sided with him. We took her off planet and got her fixed up." He cleared his throat. "She's the one training the kids."

He had never seen her so still. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her mouth still slightly open and her eyes wide and round. In the light breeze, her hair stirred, falling loosely around her shoulders. He'd always liked it when she wore it down.

After several seconds, she said, softly, "You were a stormtrooper."

He grimaced. "Not exactly. We left before that designation came into use."

She shook her head minutely, as though to clear it. She looked around the balcony, as though trying to focus on anything except for him as she processed this new revelation. The breeze was cool, and he could feel it in contrast with the warmth of his face. With the increasing quiet, he could hear some of her neighbors in a nearby apartment playing music too loudly, and its dull thumping sounded oddly in the silence.

"Clone trooper, then," she said, the word '_clone'_ breathed out with a quiet disbelief. She raised a hand up to her mouth, covering it, and closing her eyes as her brows furrowed in thought. When she opened them again, they were analyzing, sweeping over him again critically. "You. Waxer. Fives. A Captain?" he nodded once, and she continued, "And a Jedi. And Nura. Did I miss anyone?"

He winced. "Cody. A Commander."

She breathed deeply. "Five former clone troopers. You're a clone."

He resisted a second wince, and lifted his chin slightly, using defiance as a shield. "I'm still the same as I was a few minutes ago."

Suisen lifted a brow, and gave him a hard smile. "Yes. You are. But a few minutes ago you were Echo my boyfriend, who helps his brother run a charity orphanage. Now you're Echo my boyfriend who's a former clone trooper on the run from the Empire, hiding a Jedi and a batch of Jedi younglings in rural Alderaan." She sighed. "I never could figure out why I had the feeling you'd be trouble." The sigh turned into a feeble grin at her attempt at a joke.

It wasn't the joke that calmed him. She said he was still her boyfriend, and though she looked strained, she wasn't angry or repulsed by him. Echo lifted a hand and tentatively reached out, trailing his fingers through her black hair, then raising them to lightly touch her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into the caress, as she usually did, though without the usual accompanying smile of contentment.

"You're risking a lot, aren't you?" she asked, raising her hand to place it on top of his, then stepping closer and recovering the space she'd made between them when she'd grasped what he was telling her. "With the younglings, and just showing your face."

She _understood_.

He kissed her. She accepted the kiss, tilting her head and placing her hand on his hip to draw him a little closer, as he placed his free hand on the small of her back, pressing her against him. It was light, comforting rather than passionate, lingering rather than intense. "You just dumped a whole lot of trouble in my lap, Echo," she muttered after a time, pressing her forehead against his cheek.

"Sorry," he mumbled, knowing there was no anger in her tone, only a kind of weary acceptance. He slid his arms around her waist, hugging her and allowing himself to feel relief. They stayed that way for awhile, occasionally shifting positions to touch each other differently, passing through a series of positions they each found comforting.

With Fives, Behri had eventually accepted him. Ahsoka had always known what Rex was, and fell in love with him anyway. There was an almost indescribable happiness welling within him, knowing that he was, now, sharing in that feeling of belonging, this time without hiding anything. Cautiously, he ventured in a lighthearted tone, "Can I make it up to you?"

She shifted, turning to look up at him while keeping her head on his shoulder. She arched a brow. "You can start by giving me the full version of whatever happened. After that, I'm sure I can come up with something."

He guffawed, grinned. She rolled her eyes, kissed him on the cheek.

"Start talking," she told him.

He did.

* * *

The door was closed so quietly, Fives barely heard it.

He and Behri had few things; what they did have that wasn't easily portable in a knapsack, they left on Alderaan. Trips to the planet were longer than they were when he was traveling alone. There was a simple tendency to linger where they were safe, now that there were two of them, and Behri had not been raised a solider as he had.

It didn't take him long to pack, but he did like to check their gear, supplies and money the day before they headed out on a mission. Tomorrow, Waxer would drive them into Aldera, and the spaceport, where they'd head out again for further exploration. There were rumors of interesting things happening in the Corellian sector, and they were all curious about it. Corellia was an interesting world, as well, and he'd been wanting to go back again since his first trip, several months before Behri joined him. He was hoping to take her to a particular little dive with the sweetest ryshcate pastries he'd found on the planet. She liked sweets, and she'd been in a strange, almost gloomy mood for an entire week. Nothing seemed to cheer her up, and she was constantly distracted, even pensive.

That gloominess seemed to have lifted, now. He looked up from their bed and the clutter sprawling across it, to find her looking at him with her particular brand of determination. She was still worried about something, almost to the point of being scared, but had made up her mind and was digging in to defend her position. He braced himself, unsure of where this was going.

She fidgeted, then took a deep breath and began with a ramble. "Do you remember, a couple weeks ago, when we were coming back, on that transport?"

Fives blinked. It was a long, boring trip, but they'd somehow managed to get their own cabin for the duration of the flight. Two days of quiet time with Behri. No risk of waking to a shoot-out, no younglings running around screaming at the crack of dawn. Quiet and privacy. He grinned, rather goofily. He definitely remembered coming back on the transport.

Behri cleared her throat slightly, and looked embarrassed. "Yes, _that_ transport. And you know, how I said we shouldn't do anything, because I needed to take care of some medical things when we got back here, and then we kind of did anyway?" She was a brilliant red under her freckles now, and was absently twitching her fingers together.

He nodded, still confused as to where this was going. It was the middle of the day, the house was full and active, she was almost stuttering with nervousness; obviously she wasn't suggesting they clear off the bed to mess it up. Increasingly confused, he asked, "Behri?"

"I'm pregnant."

He stared at her a long time. "Oh," he said.

She wrung her hands a couple of times. "The med droid said I'm only a couple weeks along. It had to have been then." She finally ventured a look at him, and found him to be standing still and gaping at her. Pressing her hands against her sides, she continued, "I know this is bad timing, but it's always bad timing with what we do, and Fives," she said plaintively, wrapping her arms around herself defensively, "I want to have kids someday, and if it's always a bad time, then I might as well keep this one." She pursed her lips and raised her chin, setting it defiantly. "And I'd like to have one with you."

The thought of having children – his own children – was never something he thought much about. For the large majority of his life, the thought of merely having a girlfriend was a dream. The only kids he ever considered helping to raise were the ones he'd helped to rescue and bring to Alderaan. Even then, at most, he was Fives-_nerra_, the big brother who traveled and wasn't around too much.

Babies were helpless little things that needed huge amounts of time, care and energy. No babies on missions. No pregnant women on missions, at least not ones with the potential for a lot of shooting. That meant no Behri. He'd have to travel alone, if he traveled at all. Fives liked to travel; there was a whole galaxy out there to see.

Slowly, his gaze moved from Behri's green eyes to her midsection. Whatever was growing in there was a part of him, even as it was a part of her. He'd be a dad. There were a lot of things he'd been in his life: a cadet, a trooper, an ARC, a deserter, and always, always a clone. Clones didn't have families.

But then, they didn't desert either. Didn't disobey orders, didn't figure out their own paths in life. That was for more ordinary people, with more ordinary lives. He'd never had parents. Kaminoans and drill sergeants made terrible replacements. He looked at Behri's face again. Of all the things he'd ever wanted in life, she made him the happiest. He liked to think she was happy too.

They were making a baby. Well, Behri was making a baby. Fives frowned a little, stepped forward, and hesitantly reached a hand towards her middle, placing his palm against her belly. After a moment, she placed her hand on top of his, gently. Her voice wasn't entirely steady when she said, "I'm only a couple weeks along. It's not even the size of a pea, yet."

Her belly felt the same as it always had, smooth, flat and warm. Cadet, trooper, ARC, deserter, clone and _father_. He sucked in a deep breath and met her eyes, saying the words in a rush. "Then I guess it'll be our pea."

Behri's hand tightened on his, her fingers sliding between the ones beneath hers. She was afraid of what was coming, but judging by the fledgling smile forming on her mouth, excited too.

Fives supposed there were other things, beside the galaxy, to explore.

They were going to have one amazing kid.

* * *

Way back in _Said the Joker to the Thief_, in the epilogue, Fives is mentioned with Behri and they have a daughter with them. I imagined the daughter to be in her early teens at the time of the destruction of Alderaan, and as this is roughly five to six years post-Order 66 right now, I realized Behri must get pregnant _now_. Soooo…they had a little oopsie.

As always, much love to all of you kind enough to leave comments! I really appreciate your taking the time to tell me your thoughts. **rabbitxwriter, Elven-Spear, 3LW00D, KatiaSwift, littlelionluvr, doctor anthony, Kaprikorn, BetaReject, DoubleEO, Scfilover **and **ThoseWereTheDays**!

Only one chapter left!

~Queen


	13. Comes Hope and Rebirth

_What Any of it is Worth_

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Chapter 13. Comes Hope and Rebirth

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"Leaving?"

Rex leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and waited for a response. It was early yet; the sun was just barely above the horizon, and the house was still asleep. No adults were making breakfast, no younglings were running between the bathroom and the kitchen. All was quiet inside the safety of their home, and Cody was preparing to leave it, standing in the foyer, suited up with a large knapsack strapped to his back and a ration pouch on his hip.

Cody shrugged and shook his head, making a small gesture towards the table set against the wall. Nura kept a vase there, and Olwen usually picked flowers to put in it. There were little white ones there now, with a folded note and a communicator beside it. "I've been meaning to go for awhile," Cody began, adjusting the straps of the knapsack on his shoulders. "With Fives taking care of Behri, it seemed like the right time to take off on my own."

"Corellian sector?"

A nod. "The communicator's already encrypted." He hefted his arm, turned his hand enough to show the comlink affixed to the back of his wrist. "I'll keep in touch, and let you know if there's an emergency."

Rex considered his old friend, waiting to leave. Cody probably figured it was easier this way, to avoid long goodbyes, allowing himself to just disappear. Since joining them, Cody belonged, but did not quite belong; he knew he had a home there, friends that were now family. There was a haven, and safety, and peace if he wanted it.

But there was also a whole galaxy out there, and the safety here was tenuous. To even go to town risked revealing how many men with the same face lived up the road from the other houses. It was a restrictive way of life. Rex knew Cody couldn't stay still any longer than he could. It was, perhaps, only surprising that he'd stayed as long as he had. Their lives here were small, and if Cody wanted more in his life than the caring of children, he'd have to leave to get it.

Rex chuckled once, wryly. "If you wait a day, Ahsoka and I can you a lift to Aldera and the spaceport."

Cody returned the laugh. "But where's the fun in that?"

The two men grinned at each other for a moment, until Cody shrugged deeper into the knapsack. "I'll be in touch," he repeated, a subtle signal that he wished to leave.

Rex straightened, unfolded his arms and nodded. "Watch yourself."

"You too. And Ahsoka."

He always did. Cody turned and opened the door, allowing in a rush of fresh, sweet smelling morning air. Rex followed as far as the porch, watching Cody wind his way down the path towards the road. The world was awash in red, with rosy fingers of light reaching up into the sky beyond the treetops.

Another day was beginning.

* * *

There were no ghosts in this place.

This world was once visited by a slow, steady stream of men and women from nearly every species in the galaxy; they arrived seeking the precious crystals nestled deep within its caves, for use in their particular weapons. But these people visited no longer, their lives extinguished, their culture erased, their ways forbidden. The temple set on the Crystal Cave was vacant, no more than a ruin of ice and snow and stone, collapsed in upon itself. Forgotten, Ilum languished in its solitude.

Only one little ship visited the world of ice and snow. It did not come often, but when it did, it found its way to a little valley somewhere on the southernmost continent, and the small party within the ship would venture out to a nearby ravine, and a deep, narrow cavern hollowed out within it.

Away from the wind and the snow, the temperature was somewhat warmer within the belly of the cave, but Ahsoka could still see the faint cloud of her breath as she exhaled. It hung in the air before her for several slow seconds before dissipating, fading out into the dim light of the subterranean world. No light came from the cave mouth, nor was any provided by the lanterns they'd brought with them on this little spelunking expedition. The further Ahsoka and the two children passed into the cave, the less white ice could be seen, slowly fading into black rock and dripping stone stalagmites. But eventually, that dark rock began to turn hazy, then clear, becoming stone as smooth and clean as water standing still, and amid that frozen river, in little eddies and swirls, corners and twists, bits of brightness could be found. Clusters of crystals grew together, gleaming blue and green and turning the cave into a swirling whirlpool of pale, lambent light.

In the center of the cave, Ahsoka sat, forming a triangle with the two eldest of the Alderaan younglings. Their hands rested on their knees, their breathing steady and slow. Before each of them lay the pieces of a lightsaber hilt, arranged neatly as though parts of a three-dimensional schematic. Only three little crystals floated in the air, gleaming serenely and casting an almost eerie glow into each of their faces.

Ahsoka allowed her eyes to remain open, watching her breath puff outward, stream past her crystal, and fade again into nothingness. She looked up at each of the children in turn, and reminded herself she should begin thinking of Maera and Rithron, not as children, but instead as Padawans. They were still young for it; twelve was early, and were circumstances different, she'd give them another year or two before taking them on. But if they were to truly become Jedi, she needed to give them more training and more of her time, and she could not always be on Alderaan. She compromised by telling herself she would begin them early, but slowly.

She looked at each of them in turn. Maera sat still, her face steady, set with the absolute determination to do this right, to excel and to survive. Her dark eyes shone near to emerald from her crystal's glow, her lengthening lekku curling and uncurling with each slow breath of her meditation. Rithron's expression, in contrast, neared to joy. His blue eyes were filled with eager delight, both turned a vivid aquamarine. The small horns beginning to protrude from the crown of his head created dancing shadows around his face, standing in stark contrast to the warmth that glowed there. He struggled to maintain a meditative state, but his eagerness to at last have his own lightsaber nearly vibrated from him, his hope for a future and his love of fencing pouring steadily into the heart of his crystal.

Ahsoka looked at her own. For so long, she had wielded her Padawan lightsaber, which she made at the Jedi Temple so long ago. It served her well down the years, defending her, protecting both herself and others as she used it. Even after Master Kenobi knighted her, she kept it the same, not feeling quite right about remaking it in accordance with her new status. Her knighthood was premature, a necessary thing born of circumstance and need. She was little more than an overgrown Padawan herself.

Now, though, she was preparing to take on apprentices of her own. Not one, but two, and soon many more, far more than she should. It would not be easy, not even with help from Rex or from the others at home. She could not think of herself as a learner any longer; now she must be a teacher. Others relied on her for guidance. She must be a Master.

Breathing in deeply one final time, she expelled her breath more heavily. Maera and Rithron slowly lifted their eyes to her, noticing the change in the pace of the meditation, and of Ahsoka's slowly rising hands. Parts of her lightsaber drifted upward with the motion, and within moments, the two children followed suit, commanding the pieces to levitate into the air, slowly aligning themselves with the softly glowing crystals whirling slowly before them.

Ahsoka flicked her fingers, breathing steadily and reaching out through the Force to brush her mind against the crystal. It resonated already with the experiences of years past, of hopes and dreams and fears. Now into it she pressed her desire to defend what was left; to serve as a vanguard against further loss; to bring more brightness to the Light Side. With these wishes, the casing around the crystal began to take shape, drawing closer together, narrowing slowly, sealing the bright, pulsating crystal within silver-grey confines until that space was left dark.

Across from her, Maera and Rithron imitated her movements, their hands hovering delicately around their slowly assembling weapons, the cast of light on their faces diminishing until there was a complete hilt before them, and only shadow upon their features.

Ahsoka reached out and clasped the hilt of her lightsaber, feeling the change in the grip, the weight, the heft. She flexed her fingers around it, testing the feel and reacquainting herself with her weapon. It was her best work. She could only hope it fit the quality of a Master's piece.

With a small, practiced motion, she ignited the lightsaber, hearing its familiar swish and hum and feeling its' soft vibration in her palm. Two more blades of green shot upward to join hers, the bright luminescence of the plasma now lighting the two children's faces, much as the crystals had several moments ago.

Ahsoka smiled, looking at Maera and Rithron. It seemed like long ago she had experienced the same awe, upon completion of her first lightsaber. They were looking at each of theirs, wide-eyed and open mouthed as though the bright beam in their hands was a revelation.

She turned to hers, listened to its quiet song and enjoyed, for a moment, the sheer beauty of its light.

She was a Master, and she had Padawans.

The three pillars of light cut steadily into the darkness.

* * *

_End Part 2._

_To be continued in Part 3: This is Not Our Fate_


	14. Sequel Preview

_Preview_

_This is Not Our Fate_

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Cody got his feet under him, swept forward, pressing his momentary advantage. She ignored the weapon on the ground, wisely choosing to fight instead of distract herself with scrambling after the blaster. He was heavier and larger than she, and he used his weight against her, planting his feet solidly so he wouldn't be thrown off them again, and using all the strength he could push up from his torso to drive a fist at her head.

Then she was suddenly lower, bending backward in an impressive display of flexibility and balance, his fist connecting with only air as he tried to stop before he overextended his reach. His fist opened, fingers grasping, as he saw her black gloved ones move into place on his wrist and forearm.

There was no time to even curse before he felt her thin fingertips driving sharply into clusters of nerves, and her grip suddenly became hard as iron, turning his arm even as she uprighted herself. He floundered, his hand clasping fabric even as he was forced to fling himself forward to avoid her snapping his arm out of its socket.

His scream of pain was short, the sound cut off as he slammed into the street hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He gasped, vaguely noting that she'd released his arm as he rolled onto his back.

"If I kill you now, you can't report back."

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The rest of Chapter 1 of _This is Not Our Fate _can be found under my profile. Enjoy!

~Queen


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